Intertwining Destinies
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: Post mission ensemble series exploring the possibilities of an RTP relationship, 2161 and beyond. AU from Bound to the end of season four. Please read author's notes so you know exactly what to expect.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I thought I was done with this pairing. I really did. But it seems that neither all of you nor I were satisfied with the fact that nearly every RTP fic ends in the death of T'Pol. Can I write fluff for this pairing? More importantly, am I even capable of doing so? Welcome to a new project that examines the possibility of an AU RTP relationship and their connections with other pairings that we know and love. This work ignores everything from Bound to the end of season four. The key to enjoying this story is to employ casual disbelief of the unlikely. We're throwing the rule book out the window.

Individual chapters are rated differently, with a general rating of T for language and sexual situations. The following pairings will be included: RTP, Troshi, SassCaptains, PC, and Travis/McKenzie. Eventually, we'll bring in Hess/Rostov, Kov/OC, and Shran/Jhamel. Yeah, I know. Expect no substance here, just sweet saccharine goodness. Sorry this first story is so long, approximately a metric crap ton of exposition was needed for any of my ideas to make any sense.

**Intertwining Destinies: A Tucker Wedding**

**The One Where Archer Gets Drunk, Phlox Is Adorable, and Malcolm Gets Some Action**

For the umpteenth time in the past ten minutes, Elizabeth Cutler turned to ask her companion if she was alright.

"Yes," T'Pol acknowledged, although she was perspiring lightly. She was recovering from a brief bout with _pon farr_ and some symptoms were lingering still. The same chemical remedy that they had utilized during the first months of their mission had only made the classical indications of her malady easier to hide.

"Are you sure? I'm positive that Hoshi and Trip would understand. After all, it is only the rehearsal dinner—"

"I'll be fine," she snapped, then instantly regretted it. "My control is to a more manageable level. Socialization with former members of the crew will not be overly taxing."

Elizabeth looked at her doubtfully, then turned her focus to her husband, who strolled a few steps ahead of them lost in his own musings.

"My first human wedding," he marveled, hands in his pockets as he examined the scenery of the San Francisco bay as if he had never seen it before.

"Phlox, honey," she corrected gently, having trouble keeping the smile out of her voice. "Travis and Corporal McKenzie were married even before we were, and Archer and Hernandez only eloped last summer." She remembered that day. Less than a month off the boat, so to speak, a message had gone out on encrypted channels. The former commanding officers of the Enterprise and Columbia had grown tired of waiting for the opportune time for more traditional nuptials, so they had settled for a date at the courthouse followed by a huge party in the expansive backyard of their estate. It was so sudden, and yet, so _them._ However, Elizabeth was glad that her own husband had settled for a more customary wedding when they had made their commitment official in the months after the Romulan War.

Perhaps his former captain's boldness had inspired Trip Tucker, for he had popped the question to his longtime girlfriend, Hoshi Sato, only weeks later. Knowing that they would get nowhere fast with such an effervescent personality as the head of the so-called planning committee, it had taken nearly a year for the date to be set in stone. But only three short days from now, the two would be bound together in holy matrimony. Elizabeth could not be more excited for her one-time shipmates. Love was what the world go 'round, was it not?

Interrupting her inner monologue, Phlox only shrugged as if he was wondering why that particular detail mattered. "Elizabeth, it's the first human wedding I've been to concerning these particular two humans. And…_hopefully_…the only one." They beam at each other, sharing the joy in life's simple pleasures together.

Suddenly, the Doctor becomes aware that his latest charge isn't doing so well. He turns, approaches her, and takes her elbow for support. Catching her poorly concealed look of consternation, he says, "This will be a festive day for all of us, surely, Commodore!"

T'Pol's promotion from the rank of Captain is still some number of months away. She bristles at his enthusiasm.

"Hoshi tells me that she was sure to contact all of the surviving members of the crew that were present at our lady's decommissioning. Think about it. When was the last time you saw your beta shift replacement? Or Chef? Or Crewman Morales?" he asks, referring to Enterprise's jovial quartermaster.

"It's been quite some time," she admits, breaking free from his grasp and beginning to stride quickly away.

"I hear that Captain Reed will be there," Phlox says knowingly. Sure enough, T'Pol stops in her tracks. Behind her, Cutler elbows her husband and giggles.

Showing up at her doctor's office at the appointed time the week before, she had been restrained and administered the drug that was promised to expedite the painfully slow process of one of her species' most natural processes. The Doctor was instructed not to release her no matter how much she screamed, begged, or cried out for someone, _anyone,_ to relieve the urgency that was building up within her.

She had lost herself in the mania and desperation, but when she faded back into consciousness she was met by the cheerful face of Elizabeth Cutler. She had taken off from her job in order to assist her husband in this most pressing matter, and had spent the past several hours beside her dabbing her forehead with cool cloths. However, in between bouts of this meager explanation, she was struggling to hide her impish smile. Apparently, Doctor Phlox informed her with his token lack of subtlety, she had begun to plead for one man in particular almost as soon as she had arrived.

Since then, she had made daily treks to the Denobulan's offices at Starfleet Medical, and every moment spent was inundated with gentle teasing as the pair attempted to weasel more information out of her. To her credit, T'Pol stayed mostly silent.

In the months after she returned to Earth, she found herself at the crossroads. There was no way she could return to Vulcan; truthfully, she had no desire to return to the cloistered, close-minded lifestyle from whence she had come. So, she had stayed with the fleet, refusing a ship of her own, and had taken an honorable position at the Academy's most prestigious research institute. It was challenging work, it engaged her mind like not many things could, and best of all, it kept her from thinking about him.

Trip and T'Pol had made their peace eventually, even if the emotions from their poorly thought out hook-up in the Expanse were still raw. Yet, she craved intimacy and stability, and theorized she could find that in none other than the ship's armory officer. Malcolm was composed, well-spoken, albeit shy in many situations. If she was introverted and calculating, he was all that and more. Once much of the Trellium-induced delirium had faded and she considered herself to be, what the humans colloquially referred to as 'moved on', the war had begun.

She had seen so much bloodshed and moral discrepancies on both sides, but when the conflict had ended, T'Pol felt strangely unfulfilled. This sensation had endured for all of her attempts to rationalize remaining aloof from trivial matters such as romance, but as she lay in bed alone night after night, she began to crave some companionship. What's more than that, human companionship. A _certain_ human.

This need was immense and bolstered by profound feelings of regret and entire nights spent pondering what might have been. She had heard very little of Malcolm since the day that Captain Archer had addressed the assembled crowd at Enterprise's decommission, and had assumed that he had taken command of his own ship and was now engaged in his own personal exploration. Logically, this would mean he would be unable to attend the upcoming Tucker-Sato nuptials.

This was not the first time logic had failed her.

She addresses Phlox slowly, deliberately: "I was not aware of this." Her tone was almost accusing. If the two were going to be privy to such a secret, they might as well be looking out for its disclosure.

Cutler comes to his defense. "Neither did we, until this morning. It seems that this was a last minute decision." She shrugs, and the group continues on to the hotel where the dinner will be held.

-0-

The designated area is huge, cavernous, and in the corner Hoshi Sato is chattering excitedly to a gathered group of bridesmaids. She wears a summer kimono in keeping with the aesthetic of her culture. In her peripheral vision, she notices her fiancé and Malcolm Reed in heated discussion. Both men are gesturing broadly with their hands, and Trip appears to be pleading with his friend. She had questioned Malcolm's last minute appointment to best man, but if that was the final thing to go wrong this week, she would be pleased.

She sees Liz approaching with a very uncomfortable looking Vulcan in tow. The Japanese woman waves frantically as they draw near. Hoshi had been informed about T'Pol's condition and how she was currently under the supervision of Cutler should she suddenly relapse or worsen. Truthfully, she was glad. She had treasured T'Pol's friendship from the moment she had taught her to meditate as a way to keep her head about her on the Klingon ship all those years ago. Without coercion, it was unlikely that the shy woman would have attended such an event.

As the group benignly discusses the upcoming weekend, Hoshi can feel Malcolm's eyes boring a hole through the backs of several people in an attempt to get a glimpse at T'Pol. Suddenly, she understands. Rolling her eyes, she knows that she will have to chastise Trip for this later. _If_ she remembers, that is.

Meanwhile, Trip is saying, "You're always complaining about how you've remained a bachelor while everyone else—" here he makes air quotes, "—settles down. What a better opportunity to make connections than my wedding?"

The Brit gasps in mild horror at the suggestion. "Trip, I would _never—"_

He cuts him off with a wave of his palm. "Think about it. All of these women from your past, now a decade more mature and sure of what they want for the future. Consider it a second chance."

Malcolm eyes him skeptically.

"Oh, come on! You're my _best_ friend! While you're the best man, you've got to socialize with everyone personally! Are you sure there's no one you've wanted to see since we left?"

His eyes go wide, and he appears to be glaring over Trip's shoulder. The southerner turns around and sees no other than the most reclusive Vulcan this side of the quadrant arriving with Liz Cutler. He glances back at his friend and find that he is now glaring at him in accusation.

"I didn't know _she_ was going to be here!" He replies quickly, but it's a lie. Trip knew intuitively that Malcolm had harbored a crush on his former flame for some time now, and he couldn't imagine a better way to pull them out of their respective shells.

"Sure," Reed says, and he can tell that he's about to launch into a whole series of questions that he isn't prepared to answer. Trip makes a beeline for his fiancée. It's about time that they get things started.

After endearingly fumbling over their introductions, the couple takes a seat at the head table and waits to be served. The guests begin to locate their assigned seats, and Malcolm is chagrined to notice that he's been seated next to the object of his affections.

Some time elapses, and he begins to think that she may have bolted at the thought of associating with him. The very thought causes him to feel sick to the stomach. Suddenly, he sees her, speaking to the Admirals Archer.

As Erika and Jon sit and begin to engage other conversational partners, T'Pol begins to head in his direction. He starts to formulate possible opening lines he could utilize to emphasize that he was available, willing, and the very same man that he had been whenever they had seen each other last. Or would she not like that? Maybe he should begin with how much progress he had made in his professional life—

"Captain," she admits his presence, nods slightly, and sits beside him. At the far end of the table, he can see Trip Tucker trying to be casual in his monitoring of their interaction. He's hiding his facial expression behind his napkin, so Malcolm shoots him a dirty look to let him know that he's fully aware of what is afoot.

It occurs to him that he has yet to respond. Before he can think it out any further, he blurts out, "What a fantastic place to get married!"

Her eyebrow is rapidly approaching her hairline. He can't help but notice that her raven tresses have grown longer, thicker. And is that a bit of lipstick he sees on those full, alluring lips?

_Ahem._

"I mean…the building! It's beautiful, isn't it?" He considers making a comment about the weather, but thinks to himself that his attempt at casual banter has already rendered enough damage.

She blinks slowly, but says nothing. Their food arrives; it looks and smells delicious, but suddenly neither feels very hungry.

"It's been a long time," she begins, "I am eager to hear of the changes in your life since we last spoke."

Eager? _Her?_

"Well…I…" he reaches for his wine glass, theorizing that he might be able to converse better with a little liquid courage in him. Halfway, his fingers collide with hers. A sensation akin to an electric charge races up his arm.

He pulls his hand back as if it were on fire. T'Pol looks nonplussed. He takes a deep breath and says, "Well, I'm currently designing the next generation of Mark VI torpedoes. Research and development is very much in need of my expertise."

_Did that sound too arrogant?_ He dearly hopes not, and dimly wishes that this fortuitous meeting of someone from his past would not cause him to act so like a lovestruck teenager.

"Fascinating," her lips quirk upward and she leans into him. Not enough to invade a professional distance, but enough for a blush to begin to creep its way across his cheeks and down his collar. "I am assisting a team of scientists from the Interspecies Medical Exchange in examining the clinical applications of baryonic dark matter."

This intrigues Malcolm. Regretfully, he states, "I'm afraid I don't know much about that." He hopes that this is enough to sow the seeds of future conversation.

"It is inherently simple," her explanation begins, and so does his confidence.

-0-

Three nights later, Hoshi kneels before a mirror, watching Fiona McKenzie secure her wedding veil to her elaborate up-do. To be fair, it was really a _wataboshi,_ a traditional white hood worn in ceremony by many women in her situation. She had opted for an _uchikake_ kimono for this occasion, but was more than happy to pave the way for a Western style service to appease the Tuckers.

Hoshi had grown up very keen to learn the ways of other cultures, and hoped that her parents and her in-laws would be able to do the same. She loved Trip with all of her heart, knowing the affection was returned. However, her stoic mother and father had not mixed well with the elder Tuckers on their first meeting. There had been a fundamental clash of personalities; somehow Charles the second had managed to offend Michio Sato in a short ten minutes she had left them alone.

She could only hope that the situation may get better.

As she put the final touches on her makeup, she saw the remaining members of her troop of bridesmaids enter. Cutler, she noted, already was struggling not to cry.

With a poor attempt to keep the emotion out of her voice, she says, "Don't you _dare._ I need to make it through the ceremony without bursting into tears, you know?" She stands and finds that McKenzie, Amanda, and Lucia are all in a similar predicament. T'Pol stands in the corner, tugging on the neckline of the revealing red gown Hoshi has chosen for the group to wear.

She had been well aware of the stereotypes surrounding ugly bridesmaids dresses, and had picked a backless gown with both a high neck and slit in the skirt. Hoshi had been about to amend her decision and allow her Vulcan friend to dress to her liking, but once Trip had explained to her his plan she had decided steadfastly against it.

Hoshi opens her mouth and is about to praise their appearance and their devotion to the cause when Erika enters. She offers a broad smile.

"We're ready," she says. "Jon says that everything is in place."

For the millionth time, Hoshi realizes how happy to have her former captain officiate her wedding. Sure, he was no minister, but nostalgia had had a tremendous effect in the decision.

"Great," she takes a deep breath as her friends begin to line up behind her. It was time. She wasn't sure she was ready, but then again, no one ever seemed to be.

-0-

The ceremony went off without a hitch. Trip's nephews escorted the rings down the aisle, and the entire congregation was touched by the couple's handwritten vows. Now, the reception was in full swing. A majority of the assembly was mingling and socializing, with the glaring omission of the officiator and his wife.

Hand-in-hand, Erika and Jonathan Archer had left the party in pursuit of their own fun. They considered themselves newlyweds still after nearly a year committed, and often enjoyed all the perks that marriage had to offer. Now, Jonathan strode ahead of her in search of a private place for recreational activities…_of some sort._

Erika laughed at his faux intensity and allowed herself to be lead around by her husband. Finally, he located what seemed to be an empty storeroom at the end of a long corridor.

"Jon, they're going to notice that we're gone."

"Hey, where's your sense of adventure?" He winks at her and pushes the door open with a single broad motion.

Immediately, something is very wrong. She can only make out the figure of another man and woman scrambling for composure and someone with an unmistakable British accent crying weakly, "This room is occupied!"

Jonathan has now grown very pale. "I can see that, Mr. Reed!" He slams the door and begins to retreat so fast that Erika has to run a few steps to catch up with him.

"What was that?" she demands, wanting to know what she's missed.

"I can't believe this!" He exclaims, pausing at the end of the hallway. "They never showed any indication of having affection for each other! In ten years! Ten years, Erika!"

She's confused. "Who?"

"Malcolm and my damn science officer, of all people!" he continues his rant and does not answer her question.

Erika quickly racks her brain for the correct name to place with the face she recalls, and her mouth forms a tiny 'O' of surprise. Before she can ask any more questions, she is yanked back into the reception hall by her thoroughly traumatized husband.

-0-

Truth be told, he had been lucky to get rid of her that first night. He had entertained T'Pol's company all through the rehearsal dinner, then the pair had elected for a walk down by the bay in the twilight of the early evening. They had been intercepted by Doctor Phlox on their way out, and he had briefly wondered why. However, that dominating thought had been short lived once he realized just how much he had to catch up on.

She had spoken at length about her work, and he for his. Once they had exhausted that topic, they reminisced about bygone missions and all the people they had met and all the opportunities they had once seized and then lost.

He volunteered to walk her up to her quarters, a bit taken aback by the request. However, as was his chivalrous custom, Malcolm only opened the door for his companion and followed her inside her building.

When he had complimented the pendant she wore, she began to relate how her uncle had given it to her upon the completion of her initial training with the Vulcan Science Academy. This spurred another discussion about their respective families. She expressed sympathy over his stunted childhood, and reassured him that it had had no detrimental effects. Malcolm was about to inquire about her youth, a subject he had yet to breach, when she suddenly stopped in the middle of the corridor.

He looked at her curiously, captivated by the odd twinkle in her eyes. She indicates a nearby door. "We have arrived."

"Oh," he mumbled dumbly. Was it time for goodbyes already? Backing away slowly, unwilling to disengage from her, he said, "Will I hear from you?"

She doesn't react for quite some time, but when she does, it's a curt nod. He's relieved, nevertheless now there is nothing more to say.

She, as always, is more about action.

Before he can think very much about what's happening, he is pushed up against the wall and is reminded of her tremendous strength. T'Pol is close, incredibly close, and he can feel her trembling. They make eye contact; before he can second guess the decision he is about to make, he meets her expectant lips halfway.

It is more wonderful than he could have possibly imagined.

He wraps his arms around her waist and moves to deepen the kiss, which, to his respite, she does not resist. Now that he has finally had to opportunity to touch her, he wants more and to never be without it again.

The rational portion of his mind intervenes when the two break for air, reminding him that this most certainly is not standard behavior for her. She's not herself, and he's not about to take advantage of her. Rather, he's going to wait for some semblance of normalcy to be restored.

He plants a second kiss on her temple, and it's more of a promise than anything.

The next afternoon, there is a fulfillment of some sort; she waits for him outside of his office and this time they spend the night together. It's only after their passion has diluted into soothing words and gentle caresses that she confesses that she has recently completed a second medically induced _pon farr_. After coyly replying that this would explain _quite a few things,_ he vaguely recalls such an incident towards the beginning of their time on Enterprise. Malcolm hadn't been aware of the specifics of her illness when he had stunned her in the hallway, but eventually the ship's rumor mill and his growing knowledge of Vulcans fill in the gaps.

He admits that the incident had lingered in his mind since then. He had never been so violently and blatantly seduced, even if his professionalism had ultimately won the day. An idea had been planted in his head that day, one that would not be acted upon for nearly a decade.

After her admission, he knows that he's a goner.

Work obligations keep them apart for the entire next day, but when Malcolm sees her at Trip and Hoshi's wedding, the memory of her keening cries and the sensation of her skin against his is still fresh in his mind. This both enthralls and disturbs him.

Predictably, he seeks her out after the ceremony and demands to speak with her in private. He does not typically make love to anyone without first making some sort of commitment, and he's desperate to know if his feelings are shared.

Thank heaven they are.

When they are interrupted by Archer, T'Pol is seated in his lap with her skirts rolled up to her upper thighs. He's whispering sweet nothings into her ear, telling her how loved she is and he'd be damned if any one person would be able to hurt her again. She returns the sentiments by reminding him how long she's waited for the opportune moment to make her feelings known. She's in the middle of this thought when the door is thrown open and they are temporarily blinded by the sudden bright light streaming in from the corridor.

Now, the two sit several meters apart in complete silence. Malcolm's brow is furrowed as he gradually works up his nerve for the moment he knows he will have to return to the festivities.

T'Pol's voice is unobtrusive and nearly soundless and she says, "I do believe that the Admiral and his mate would respect our privacy."

In his mind's eye, he pictures himself the object of ridicule from everyone in attendance at the reception. Although he knows it's a stupid question, he asks, "How can you be so sure?"

She sighs and rises to take his hand. He has never seen her so determined, so resolute. T'Pol doesn't even have to say anything for him to understand what she feels at that moment. Together, the new couple leaves to face the music.

-0-

Back in the grand hall, Jonathan Archer is on his fourth tonic. He can't seem to get the image of two of his closest friends out of his head. Erika had admonished him, prompting him to remember that love was truly a beautiful thing and even they had had a few less than private intimate encounters, but he had continued to drink. She had exhaled patiently and gone in search of other companions; Erika knew that her husband was nothing if not stubborn. It was best to just wait for his current mood to subside.

From across the room, he spots Trip Tucker and makes an uneven beeline for him. His intoxicated logic says that the best way to get the offending thought out of your mind was to share the horror with someone else.

Hoshi and Trip are accepting congratulations from an endless stream of well-wishers, so they don't notice Jonathan's approach until he claps a hand on their shoulders.

Hoshi wrinkles her nose, but Trip only rolls his eyes and chuckles good-naturedly. "Jon, be honest. How much have you had to drink?" His coltish gait and precarious footsteps were hard to miss.

He holds up two fingers. "More than too much, but, man, I _gotta_ tell you…" he trails off as his words begin to slur and his affected eyesight blurs his friends' faces.

"Tell me what?" Trip asks gently, taking his pal by the arm and beginning to escort him away. He shrugs at his wife, as if to say, _what can you do?_

He's grateful to get away from his wife's mooning distant relatives that had had no interest in her until they heard that she was marrying and away from innumerous acquaintances from his academy days that had seemed to invite themselves. As he directs Jon to the turbolift, he queries, "Where's your room?"

Archer finally locates his train of thought. "Oh, yeah! You'll never believe what I swan…sween…_saw!_ Good ol' Mal Reed and our very own Vulcan!"

Erika chooses this moment to appear, having seen her inebriated husband leave with Trip. She loops an arm through his. "Jonathan, that's enough."

"Ah, mah wife!" He grins widely and points to the woman in question. "Iddn't she pretty?"

Trip trades places with the couple. Erika is now frantically searching for her room key so that she might swipe it and deliver her husband to their temporary quarters so he wouldn't reveal anything else to someone who was most definitely not on a need-to-know basis.

As the doors begin to close, Jonathan manages to fit in one last quip. Pressing his elbow to his forehead, he cries, "Jee-_zus!_ Youdda thought they were about to do it or somethin'!"

Trip was now alone in the lobby of the hotel, standing stock still. Finally, he smirks and says only, "Well, I'll be damned."

-0-

Malcolm sits in a quiet corner of the reception hall, nursing a wounded pride. It was not every day that he had to acquiesce that he _didn't_ know, _shouldn't_ fix, _couldn't_ have the solution for every little thing. However, it was his belief that this woman that had returned to his life valued him for his intelligence, even after he was caught in his own paranoid preconceptions. Sure enough, no one had stared when the couple had entered. Assuming that their secret was still intact—for now—his beloved had left him with only a glint of anticipation in her eye and a copy of her room key. Being very satisfied with that development, he was now engaged in the time-honored tradition of people watching.

He becomes aware of Trip Tucker nearing his location, and his heart sinks before he realizes that there's no way he could know about the events of the past hour. He's relieved, and his friend sits down next to him and passes a frothy mug of beer.

"Not exactly classy enough for such an occasion," he muses, taking a swig.

"Hey, we're celebrating!" Trip clinks his glass with his own and continues, "…in more ways than one, it seems." He gestures to the keycard that his friend has carelessly left on the table.

Malcolm's face goes beet red and he finds himself sputtering for composure. "How did you know?"

"Well, first of all, ya'll weren't exactly subtle. That, and Jon got absolutely hammered after the fact…you fill in the blanks."

It's silent for quite some time as the Brit fights for control of his embarrassment. The awkward hush easily transitions into companionable silence where the only noises between the two are mugs being set down on the table before them.

Eventually, Malcolm says, "I know why you asked me to be your best man."

Trip shrugs. "I knew there was a chance. But, really, there was one obvious reason."

"And what's that?"

"You're my best friend, Mal. And that's never gonna change."

The two share another moment of unperturbed companionship before Trip grasps the forgotten card and flicks it into the air. Malcolm catches it with an open hand.

"I'd run along, man. It seems as if you might have a date to uphold."

As if he suddenly remembers what's waiting for him upstairs, Malcolm finishes his drink in one last gulp, stands, and nods somewhat gravely. He leaves an amused Trip Tucker in his wake, who vaguely muses that if his wife had carried a flower bouquet and had had the opportunity to toss it, he was sure he could guess the outcome.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Well? Thoughts? Yes, it's not what you all have learned to expect from me. Usually, my fics are highly meta with an element of 'What is this relationship? Why are we doing this? Let's all angst about it!'

The way I see it, there's one way to check if you've written good fluff. If it reads like a steaming pile of cow dung to you, it's likely to make someone else squeal with delight. We shall see.

**Intertwining Destinies: The Direct Approach**

**The One Where T'Pol Tells Malcolm She's Pregnant and Hoshi Embodies Every Trope That's Ever Been Imposed On Her**

Captain Malcolm Reed walks briskly down the corridor in the direction of the apartment that he shares with his wife. It had been a long day, one practically bursting with a seemingly endless list of tasks and assignments that were mostly self-inflicted. In his perpetual expedient nature, he had completed all of them and was now looking forward to a few hours of relaxation in the company of the woman he loved.

On his way, he passes Elizabeth Cutler, who is weighted down with several hefty grocery sacks. He greets her with a nod and moves to help her. She accepts his chivalrous offer, although her smile is tight and her eyebrows are approaching her hairline in distress.

"Is something wrong, Elizabeth?" he questions, but she indicates the negative. This confounds him. The young woman had wed the ship's doctor, Phlox, in the final months of Enterprise's ten year tour of this quadrant and beyond. They had danced around their mutual attraction for quite some time, as human and Denobulan courtship rituals differed quite significantly and polygamy had always been a controversial notion for her. The two had eventually managed to put this behind them.

Coincidentally, they now resided in the same tenant complex as the Reeds. He was always enchanted to see the couple in the evenings, strolling down the main thoroughfare of the Academy grounds, reaping the benefits of their twin genial dispositions. Although they had no children together, Elizabeth often entertained those of Phlox's previous three wives. Through the thin walls, he often heard uproarious laughter coming from their flat. It was typically quiet in the Reed household, a laden silence that was contrasted with aplomb every time they were invited over. He knew she would never admit it, but Malcolm discerned that his dear wife enjoyed the company of such a boisterous bunch.

However, Elizabeth now seems flustered, flighty, and eager to escape her conversational partner. She avoids eye contact with him and says quickly, "No. Nothing at all. Why do you ask?"

She's not convincing at all.

Malcolm frowns and tries again, "Did you get the opportunity to see T'Pol today? I understand that she had an appointment with your hus—"

"Whoa, look, here we are!" Cutler stops in front of her front door and fumbles for the keypad. She enters an incorrect access code, mutters a mild swear, and tries again. This time she succeeds.

She snatches the plastic bags from him and cries, "Wow, it's been great talking to you! I'll see you later, Mr. Reed!" Without preamble, she proceeds to shut the door in his face.

Puzzled by the hasty rebuff, Malcolm shakes his head and checks his wrist chronometer. His heart jumps. Less than a minute remains before 1800 hours. He normally prides himself on his punctuality, so he nearly sprints his way down the remainder of the hallway.

Taking a deep breath, he takes a step into the apartment and nearly halfway across the living room. This was a continuous encumbrance for him; whatever advantage they may have gained in securing housing so close to their respective workplaces, they had lost in space and maneuverability. He often stubbed his toe against the coffee table in the dead of night, where either work or his insomniatic tendencies demanded his full attention. Nevertheless, the décor was spartan, per his martial sensibilities, with several traditional Vulcan icons tucked away on shelves or mounted on the walls. An open kitchenette is nestled into a corner.

That's when he sees her. T'Pol is bent over the stove, engaged in the stirring of a stew pot. He never expected her to possess a domestic streak, but even she had found ways to surprise him in the twelve years they had known each other platonically before their romantic relationship began. He can smell the fragrant bean and rice dish that she's working on, and the scene is so familiar that he surreptitiously approaches her, prepared to surprise her.

He never succeeds, as the superior hearing capabilities that all Vulcans hold usually wins the day. She turns in profile and raises one eyebrow. Her eyes twinkle with amusement as she says, _"Adun._ Why do you insist on this futile exercise?"

His smile is boyish as he rounds the cabinets and embraces her. She allows him, as she always does, and he places a soft kiss on her lips. Still not completely satisfied, Malcolm steps back and examines this scene of near ideal domesticity.

It never fails to amaze him how she remains a match of the woman that he met all these years ago. Her hair has grown longer, teasing her shoulders every time she takes a step or turns her regard to him. She's gained weight, hardly enough to be noticeable but to those who have kept her company for a while. She now wears Starfleet blues on a regular basis, with the pips to signify the rank of Commodore. Due to valiant service in the Romulan War, many officers that had remained aboard the Enterprise at the time of its decommissioning had been promoted perhaps before their time.

Malcolm, himself, holds the rank of Captain, while he also held the distinct pleasure of reporting to an old friend, Jonathan Archer, whenever he was required to seek the council of a Rear Admiral.

He digresses. He knew that he would forever be captivated by this woman, the same that had agreed to marry him a short two years ago. They both held commanding positions in the many research facilities that dotted the Academy's campus, but had agreed that when the time would come that they tired of the harsh demands that were placed on them by their superiors, they would retire ostensibly from service and be content to spend the rest of their natural lives together. Speaking of which…

She's fidgeting, using her palms to manipulate the golden wedding band that adorns her ring finger. Every subtle nuance in her behavior had become glaring indicators of her mood ever since they had bonded. Questioningly, he reaches out in his mind for her and finds that the avenue wherein he usually finds her true mentality is barricaded. Nervous now, he begins to strike up a meaningless attempt at conversation.

"I ran into Miss Cutler on the way here," he's searching her expression, but she offers no clues. "She's been a little quiet ever since she left the fleet to perform civilian duties, do you agree?"

This is not true, and they both know it. The corner of his wife's mouth rise slightly, but she strives to hide this in her palm. He suddenly recognizes that she's teasing him, mimicking the same uppity behavior that had initially repelled him from her upon their first meeting. Relieved, he continues, "I understand that you had an appointment with Doctor Phlox today. Was your check-up normal?"

He expects her to immediately assuage his concerns. T'Pol instead turns to dish out their meals and cogitates, "You are my husband. It would be inappropriate for me to not to share any changes in my health."

Malcolm chuckles at that and leans against the island. "I suppose you're right." He loads his fork and is about to take the first bite of his dinner.

"I am pregnant," she declares suddenly.

He chokes on the mouthful, as he seems to have ceased to breathe. It takes him nearly twenty seconds to clear the obstruction in his throat by hacking and coughing before he can offer his reply. "You—you're…what?"

Eloquent as usual.

She tries again, slipping her hand into his much larger one. "I am with child."

"I…I caught that," he is stunned and stumbles into the living area, leaving her where she stands. Collapsing on the couch, he mumbles, "I need a moment."

This worries her. She would have thought he would be excited at the news, considering she had spoken to him about the possibility of producing offspring together before. She joins him on the couch and clasps her palms in her lap.

"We have been consorting with Doctor Phlox about the hormone therapy for quite some time now," she has to remind him. It had been a challenge, but the physician had eventually come up with a way to combine human and Vulcan genomes and had offered it to the couple as an anniversary present a few months before. The deed itself was a mite presumptuous, but one look at the expansive grin that dominated his features implied that they should only thank him for donating such a comprehensive use of his time in their behalf.

"I know!" He exclaims, his hands finding hers. "I just didn't expect it so soon."

He lays his head back and sighs, "How could this have happened?" His tone is a bit frantic, but a smile is spreading unbidden across his face.

"Malcolm, we have been—"

He wraps her in his arms unexpectedly and holds her to his chest. It never fails to thrill him how perfectly they fit together. He places his lips by a delicately upswept ear. "I'm so happy," he whispers dumbly, then repeats this emphatically several times over as he begins to stroke her back in small circles.

Some time later, the pair lay snuggled together, T'Pol entertaining his every question on the matter. Yes, she assured him and he placed a protective hand across her stomach, she was five weeks along, but did not understand _why_ he persisted with such a behavior if she would not be displaying signs of pregnancy for the next several months.

He spoke excitedly and at length at the prospect, remembering that there was a certain crib that had been in the Reed family for years, and he would definitely have to requisition it from his mother, and, _God_, he'd love the child no matter the gender, because either way it meant getting to cultivate life with the one he loved.

So lost in their musings were they that they nearly missed the sequence of beeps that heralded the arrival of a new video message from the computer terminal across the room. Malcolm shot his wife a bewildered glance, then stood and walked towards the console. As he smoothed the front of his uniform in preparation for a potentially important communication, he noticed the user handle and immediately pressed the accept button. Bemused, he watched as the face of none other than Lieutenant Hoshi Tucker filled the screen.

The linguist craned her neck and located his wife in the background. Barely able to contain her excitement, she called out, "Did you tell him? Tell me you told him!"

Somewhere off the screen, he could hear Trip asking her what she was up to. As soon as he entered the frame sporting a portentous smirk, Malcolm pointed at him. "You knew."

"Guilty as charged," he admitted. "You forget how close our ladies are, Mal." He crossed his index and middle fingers to indicate the depth of their friendship.

The ladies in question were now talking about the impending delivery in barely constrained hushed tones. Hoshi had given birth to Trip's son three years prior. The boy had, of course, been christened Charles Tucker IV, and had proven to be quite a handful. She surely had several worthy anecdotes to share with the future mother.

Hoshi turned her attention to her superior. "Malcolm, Liz and T'Pol came to my office this afternoon—"

He suddenly understood the entomologist's strange behavior and his wife's mischievous demeanor. He propped his hands on his trim hips and feigned annoyance. "I can't believe you planned this!"

Trip guffawed at his expression and asked T'Pol, "Tell me. Did he freak out like I thought he would?"

She practically beamed, her eyes bright and lips taut. "His reaction was…less than calm."

He snorted and waved a finger in chastisement at the engineer and his bride. "Don't think that I'm not on to the two of you."

"What's the harm?" Hoshi was clearly enjoying herself. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we're going out tonight. To that little jazz club down by the harbor—"

"Millie's?"

"That's the one," Trip acknowledged and tilted his head towards the couple. "You're welcome to join us, if you'd like."

A moment later, the friends had said their goodbyes and ended the communication. The room was now silent, save for T'Pol, who cut a glance to her husband and sauntered deliberately, provocatively in the direction of the kitchenette once more. Indicating his forgotten dinner, she says, "You didn't finish your meal."

He decides to play along. "In my defense, ma'am, I was distracted."

She says nothing, only approaches him again. Arriving at his side, she walks her long fingers across his jawline and shakes her head minutely. The simple motion conveys both so much and so little. "That may prove to be problematic."

As they embrace then and later on into the evening, he wonders why many found it necessary to express their love in words and in grand gestures when simple actions of devotion were just as effective.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: And now, my latest attempt to fudge the boundaries between IC and OOC. It goes without saying that none of these little stories will be in order. I may need a shot of insulin after this chapter.

Next, expect a post-honeymoon Hoshi attempting to counsel T'Pol in her relationship skills. Many of you also wanted to see the first meeting of Hoshi and Trip's parents. That's more likely at this point.

**Intertwining Destinies: Little Meredith**

**The One Where There's a Birth and We Get To Meet Charlie**

Ensign Adhira Mukherjee read the message that had just arrived on the prompt screen of her data PADD, and then read it again. And again. And a fourth time. And even though there was no one there to answer, she exclaimed, "Are you _serious_?"

She didn't wait. Her boss would want to hear this news. Standing up so quickly that she nearly fell over, she dashed to the heavy set of double doors that separated his office from the rest of the corridor. She hefted her entire weight against the handle and pushed it open.

He stood facing away from her, busily scribbling on a legal pad that she knew was already full of schematics for up and coming weapons designs. She had reminded him time and time again that a digital spread would be easier for both of them to integrate into his many memorandums to his subordinates, but he still clung steadfastly to his old-fashioned sensibilities. Not that Adhira blamed him, though. Perhaps it came with his nationality, or the fact that the past eleven generations of his male ancestors had been navy men. Whatever the case may be, she enjoyed working for the Brit. He was kind, fair, and, best of all, promised to write her a stellar recommendation when she felt the need to move on to bigger and better things. She couldn't have gotten a better deal when she had opted out of basic training at the end of her first year.

"Captain," she began, suddenly out of breath. Malcolm Reed glanced over his shoulder, offering her a bemused smirk.

"Miss Mukherjee," he taps on the glass of the window that overlooks the courtyard, "Do I have any meetings to attend today?"

She didn't even pause. "No, sir. It's just—"

He tapped his index finger against his chin in contemplation. "I've got the oddest feeling that I'm forgetting something. Did the Admiral leave a message concerning the amended wartime accords with Betazed?"

Adhira swallowed the rising lump in her throat. It was uncanny how he was able to sense that there was something wrong before she even told him. The man has _got_ to have some latent telepathy of some sort. She shook her head violently, and he grimaced.

"I suppose it's really nothing," he acquiesced, returning to his desk chair. "If you wouldn't mind, could you order for me some specifications on the—"

"It's your wife." It was best to go for the direct approach, she decided.

It was as if Reed had been stung with a cattle prod. He stumbled, then righted himself. Before he could begin to babble, as was his habit when he was nervous, the Indian woman continued, "She's gone into labor at Starfleet Medical under the care of a Doc—"

"Doctor Phlox, yes," she noticed that he had suddenly gone very pale. He trundled to a hook on the wall and struggled to put on his overcoat. Self-consciously, Adhira moved to help him. He was shaking so hard, it seemed as if he would fly apart at any moment.

"I knew there was something!" He exclaimed, and then cursed under her breath. "How long, Ensign?" Malcolm moved towards the opposite side of the room, his notes and business files long forgotten and strewn across his desk.

"The message arrived less than five minutes ago, Sir," she fought to keep up with him as his pace increased to a jog. As they neared the exit of the research facility, she lost the battle. Calling after him feebly, she shouted: "Do you want me to call you a groundcar?"

He stopped for a moment, turned at the waist, and wrung his hands together. His face was now a rather unnatural shade of green. Malcolm shook his head to affirm the negative. "I'll…I'll run."

-0-

Moments later, after a breakneck sprint across the quad and quite a few ducks through bustling residence halls, he arrived at the hospital in question. Shoving his way through a revolving door, Malcolm found himself face-to-face with a nurse whose expression in his haste he assumed to be patronizing. She insisted that he fill out the applicable forms and display some form of identification before escorting him into the catacombs of the facility.

_What was this? What right had these people to keep a man away from the birth of his first child? _

Impatiently, he informed her that this was no ordinary delivery of any ordinary baby, no, they had been prepared for this eventuality and had had a private room reserved ahead of time in order to keep out all of the riff raff and the media and the—

"What did you say your wife's name was again?"

"Heather, stop that," a colleague called from over the desk. "Can't you see who you're talking to?"

The nurse gave the unkempt man another appraising glance, and then her eyes went wide in shock.

Seconds later, the duo was walking briskly towards the direction of the labor ward. Filled with a renewed sense of purpose, Reed nearly left the young woman in the dust. All the while, she was softly babbling her unnecessary apologies.

"I'm sorry, Captain Reed, I wasn't being very observant. Of course, they told me that the Commodore would be due sometime this week, but I'm obligated to remain compliant with…"

"I understand," he answered absentmindedly, his focus elsewhere.

"Of course, the circumstances of Earth and Vulcan's first interspecies birth need to remain somewhat private." She halted suddenly, allowed the locking mechanism mounted on the wall to identify her from a quick scan of her badge. The nurse stepped aside as the doors slid open.

"Chamber Four, Captain. The healers and the Denobulan doctor should already be in there."

He briefly muttered his thanks, searching the doors for the correct number. An egress opens farther down the hall, emitting the form of a small boy. He dashes across the corridor, into another door, and then returns in the direction he came. Malcolm instantly recognizes him as Charlie Tucker, the toddler of one of his oldest and dearest friends. He makes a beeline for the appropriate doorway.

In the cramped waiting area, Trip is already there. He nods his greeting, but his son cries jovially, "Hey, Uncle Mal!"

He stoops to ruffle the youngster's hair. Trip reaches behind him and produces a set of sterile scrubs. "Hoshi's been in there for about fifteen minutes." A look passes between them, of anticipation and expectancy. "I'd get changed if I were you."

He enters the birthing chamber and is taken aback at what he sees. T'Pol, head thrown back in agony, screams and is not aware of his arrival until Doctor Phlox, heaven bless him, announces it over the din. Her eyes snap open and she reaches for him.

He has never been more willing to go to her.

-0-

Some time later, he holds a small bundle to his chest and breathes in the unpolluted scent of new life. He never considered himself to be soft by any stretch of the imagination, but he had wept when his daughter had entered the world. As one of the Vulcan assistants hoists her and moves her to a bedside exam table, his little girl had begun to emit a series of full, lusty sobs that had nearly taken his breath away. Through time and an innumerable amount of small miracles along the way, he and his beloved had created Meredith L'Nira Reed, born late spring, 2165.

Doctor Phlox is anxious to examine his newest patient. Due to his herculean efforts in genetic recombination, he had facilitated this pregnancy to a nearly full term. He swaddles the infant and proudly announces that she has ten fingers, ten toes, and quite a robust cry, don't you think?

He's grinning as he turns to Hoshi and Malcolm. The healers are now setting to their work of cleaning up their charge, and T'Pol is hurriedly losing the battle with her exhaustion. When Phlox approaches the new father, his hand still clutching his wife's, he looks over and discovers that Hoshi is also in tears. He wonders with amusement whether this means that another child is in the future for the Tuckers. He has no time to refocus before his daughter is passed into his arms and he immediately falls in love.

She's born with a thick down of black hair, tanned skin, and her mother's ears. He traces a finger over the crest of the baby's cheek, and she opens her eyes. Deep chocolate, so reflective that he believes he can see himself in them. The weight of the situation suddenly strikes him and he chokes back another sob. Bending down to press a kiss to his wife's brow, he discovers that she has succumbed to fatigue. His daughter is in the same situation. However, he now feels transcendent.

He barely takes his eyes off the baby as he instructs the Vulcan assistant to fill out her birth certificate with the pertinent name. Both prone to their own set of endearing obsessive behaviors, they had decided on names for either gender way ahead of time. Even the night of her admission that she had conceived, they had lain in bed together and discussed their offspring's future. How they would never venture into the danger of space again, how they would strive to create the ideal childhood that neither had unfortunately gotten to experience. Yes, his little girl was immensely planned for as well as she was loved.

They had decided on Meredith, as the late matriarch of the Reed family was christened as such. It was she who, upon seeing how unhappy her sons were conscripted into the military by tradition, had encouraged young Malcolm to embrace his aspirations.

L'Nira, an instructor that his wife had studied under in her formative years, had played an integral role in who she was today. He had pressed her for details, at the consequence of increasingly vague responses. Perhaps she lacked the faculties to explain such a profound influence, but he was satisfied with the melodic nature of the moniker and was more than happy to honor T'Pol's culture in such a way.

Trip observed the dreamy expression that adorned his friend's face and smiled knowingly. Moving closer, he whispered, "She sure is a beauty, Mal." Then, even softer, "Must take after her mother."

He rolls his eyes at the Captain's gentle teasing. He feels a tugging at his pant leg and looks down to see the expectant face of Charlie Tucker gazing up at him. Slowly, Malcolm kneels down so that he can see his future playmate for the first time.

After a few moments of reverent silence, he turns on his father with wide eyes. "Daddy, was I ever that tiny?"

"Yes, honey, you were," Unbeknownst to any of them, Hoshi had left her friend's side and joined the group. She snakes an arm around her husband's waist and smiles good-naturedly at Reed.

He holds her regard for a few moments. Trip has ceased chuckling over his son's innocent question and claps a hand on his shoulder.

"We'll be heading home for the night, if you'll be alright…"

"Of course he will," Hoshi scolds, "a man needs time to…"

"Yeah, yeah," he's got the idea and steers his wife and child to the exit. Over his shoulder, he offers one final wave before disappearing from view.

Now mostly alone, Malcolm returns to his wife's side and begins to hum an oft-forgotten melody to his slumbering daughter. In her sleep, T'Pol rolls in his direction and he obliges her unspoken request by curling into her.

Out the window, the sun is just setting over the bay, but for the family, a new day was only beginning.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I was challenged to write something under one thousand words. Also, there needs to be more platonic Hoshi/T'Pol fanfiction on this website, stat.

**Intertwining Destinies: Girl Talk**

**The One Where the Ladies Discuss How Their Men Are In the Sack**

Lieutenant Hoshi Tucker, nee Sato, made her way through the Academy's cafeteria in pursuit of a place to sit. A PADD filled with upcoming lesson plans was tucked under her arm, but she was still having trouble getting back into the swing of her daily routine.

She and her husband, Trip, had recently returned from an extended honeymoon in the Caribbean. Sure, the idea may have been cliché, but those days spent under the sun and beside the man she loved had been the best two weeks of her life. She now sported a healthy tan and, secretly, a tattoo on her right flank that had been the result of a lost wager. Even though they were both grown adults, with professions and responsibilities to boot, given a little free time they resorted to acting like teenagers. The idea that her marriage would always be filled with such an ineffable joviality was comforting. Perhaps it was too soon to tell, but she could imagine spending the rest of her natural born life with the engineer.

From some distance, she spotted her friend, T'Pol, sitting alone and studying her uneaten meal before her. She hadn't seen her since the night of her wedding, where she had served admirably as a bridesmaid until she ran off with Malcolm Reed for a little bit of private time. This had caused a bit of a scuffle when Jonathan Archer had walked in on the two and proceeded to get absolutely shitfaced drunk in his pursuit to get the blasted image of his two friends fornicating out of his mind. Nevertheless, Hoshi was glad that the Vulcan woman had finally found a significant other. No one deserved to be alone, and she knew that in order for the relationship to last all parties involved needed to tread carefully.

She wasn't above a little teasing, however.

Gathering two coffee mugs from the silverware table, she approached T'Pol and helped herself to the seat across from her. Unscrewing her personal thermos of tea, she said, "I expected to see you here with Malcolm."

She raised an eyebrow. "He's currently otherwise engaged. However, I have been informed that we _have plans_ for later." She places such emphasis on those two words that Hoshi's surprised that she didn't use air quotes.

T'Pol accepts the proffered cup and looks at the Japanese woman questioningly.

"It's chamomile," she reassures her. "So, tell me how things are going."

"If you are referring to my relationship with the Captain, fine," she states, "although it seems that you have been involved in an event of more considerable magnitude."

After over ten years of friendship, Hoshi knows when she's trying to skirt around a subject. She shakes her head. "Sun. Beach. Tropical islands. Long days in bed." She shrugs as if to say, _that's it._

T'Pol's expression is doubtful.

"Honestly, I'd love to hear more about how things are progressing," she leans forward, forever eager to hear the latest bit of gossip.

_"Things?"_ T'Pol gazes at her above her cup, waifish and wide-eyed.

Hoshi swats at her forearm lightly. "Don't play innocent with me. We all heard about what happened during the reception." That's a gross exaggeration. Really, only she, her husband, and Erika Archer eventually found out about her escapades.

T'Pol's trying desperately not to make eye contact now. Hoshi decides to go for the gusto. Eyes flashing deviously, she whispers, "So tell me. Is he good?"

"You are referring to his sexual prowess," she realizes, her expression faintly shocked.

So, intercourse with men she's only re-familiarized herself with for a day she's alright with. Discussing it afterwards with her oldest and dearest lady pal she's not.

Hoshi doesn't buy it.

"Hey, I may be married now, but nothing's wrong with things told in confidence between friends," she takes another swig of her tea and points. "I'm looking out for you, you know."

Honestly, whether she divulges that information or not is no longer a matter of consequence to Hoshi. She just loves to tease T'Pol and see just how _human_ she can get her to act. There's a long pause before T'Pol begins to nod slowly and emphatically.

Hoshi titters and raises her mug in salute. "Congratulations. But it's not all about the sex, is it?" She hopes not.

"Malcolm is a splendid conversational partner and quite the gentleman. I believe he is what you would refer to as 'a perfect match'."

She smiles. It only took her ten years for her to figure that out.

"If my better half were here, he'd ask when the wedding was." It was true. Hoshi liked to test her boundaries. Trip enjoyed smashing right through them.

The Vulcan's expression turns somewhat dreamy. "Not for quite some time."

Hoshi goes in for the kill. "So when you said things were just _fine_…would you like to change your analysis?"

She ponders this for a moment, then T'Pol's arm shoots out and she refills her mug. Her tone is mischievous as she says, "I believe that it is customary when engaging in female bonding to return the confidence when one friend discusses their romantic activities."

She knows she's trapped. Hoshi's eyes dart right, and then left to make sure that they were not seated near anyone who might use the following information against her. Her sweep of the area complete, she scoots her chair in all the way and begins, "Alright, so the very first night we were there…"


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: What can I say? I've found a common vein. This chapter is dedicated to Belen09, who foresaw Meredith's nickname before I had even begun to write this chapter. The vast majority of you were wondering what a child of Malcolm and T'Pol would be like. Well, here's your answer...

**Intertwining Destinies: Merry of the Rings**

**The One Where Meredith is a Lot Like Myself as a Child**

Meredith Reed was a very special little girl, and she was keen to not have anyone forget that.

She was always short, thin, and spoke with a hint of a posh British accent. She had a mop of curly black hair that her mother always tried to wrangle but only her father could tame. By three she was attempting to sound out the complex scientific terms that she found in her mother's notebooks, and by four she had taught herself how to read.

And read she did.

Meredith read voraciously, advancing from picture to elementary chapter books in such a short period of time that she had exhausted her family's library by that Christmas. So distracted were they by her younger sister Matilda's birth that they nearly failed to notice when she selected the chunkiest volume on her father's bookshelf and sat herself in the middle of the room, struggling and failing to conquer the poetic language.

One night, as the Reeds sat in contented silence after dinner, her mother nursing baby Mattie, her father took pity on her and hoisted her into his lap. Clearing his throat, he began: "When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton."

He underlined the words with his finger as he read aloud, and Meredith followed along rapturously. That evening a fascination was born, one that was only strengthened over the next few weeks. By the time _The Return of the King_ came around, she was reading independently. Once she reached the adapted prose of _The Silmarillion,_ she would babble excitedly to anyone who would listen about jewelry capable of mind control, of small people whose gender can only be determined by the presence of a beard, and of trees as old as time itself that came alive to fight alongside humanity to destroy dark forces.

It was around this time that she began to ponder the tale of the mortal warrior of Aragorn and his love for the beautiful immortal elf Arwen. Even before she could talk, she knew that her mother and father loved each other very much. It was noticeable in the way he looked at her when she spoke, in the way they strode hand in hand when they took their nightly walks with the children. Meredith knew that her father had once been a great soldier, had traversed the skies in pursuit of evil. Now, he worked behind the scenes, developing tools to aid future generations of noble fighters.

She truly idolized her father, but not as much as she admired her mother. She was graceful, regal, and kind. She had been a scientist and a spy before she married father, and a woman of great importance. She even had pointed ears like the elves of Tolkien's work! The comparison was obvious.

Meredith learned from overheard conversations between her parents' friends that they had been separated for some time before they finally committed to each other. They had sacrificed greatly, and father had passed over several promising opportunities to ensure that he would be able to stay with his wife. What's more, although the thought frightened her, she had always been aware that mother would live many years more than father, and that mother would mourn eternally for her lost love. This sealed it in her mind. Their story equally tragic and miraculous, her parents would always symbolize the love between those two characters.

Once that precedent was set, Meredith began to cast her friends and family in her own version of the novel. Charlie Tucker was Frodo, for he was much older than she and always seemed tasked with a purpose that only grown boys like him could understand. The Doctor with the strange facial ridges that lived in the apartment across the hall became Samwise Gamgee; he knew everything about the subjects that interested him, and his bulging stomach was enough to tell her that he often indulged in a second or third breakfast. His pretty human wife was Rosie Cotton. Meredith had never seen her without a smile on her face.

A man that she only knew as the Admiral came around frequently, and it seemed to her that he was well-liked and respected by all he knew. He seemed to pull some special weight in larger matters, and was a great deal older than father. For this reason, he was Gandalf the Grey.

Meredith thought long and hard about possible aliases for herself, before stumbling across the obvious. The next morning before she went to preschool, she marched right into the breakfast nook and proclaimed that she would not answer to anything by Merry from now on. Of all the hobbits she knew, she was the wisest; this would mean her sister Matilda was Peregrin Took, for she was the youngest of all of her acquaintances.

Father had seemed amused by this development, and had defended her choice to mother. He had had a similar phase when he was a boy, she said—logic be hanged, it was important to foster a child's imagination.

On her fifth birthday, her Aunt Hoshi had given her a brass ring carved with ornate Vulcan script. Mother and father had said that giving such a small child jewelry was just an accident waiting to happen, but the woman had just winked at Meredith and said that she would be an adult woman soon enough.

Knowing that she had only heard Vulcan spoken in her household and had yet to see it written, the linguist explained that the lettering read, "Moonlight drowns out all but the brightest stars." Hoshi had then said that this meant that even if hard times were to get in her way, she should always persevere and prove just what a special girl she was.

But, of course, she already knew that.

That night as the party continued, Meredith ran to her chest of drawers and strung the ring onto a brightly colored piece of yarn. Tucking it around her neck, she deduced that if her friend Charlie only wanted to play with boys his own age, she would have to complete the quest on her own.

The next autumn, the Reeds moved to the top floor of their building. Their apartment was becoming too cramped to accommodate their growing family, so they packed up their belongings and transferred them to a space where the girls would be able to have their own rooms. In the evening, gazing out her window that overlooked the wide green lawn of the Academy's common area, she saw a beacon shining above the administration building. Although it was really used to warn approaching shuttlepods piloted by helmsmen in training, the little girl took one look at the bright red light and whispered reverently, "Sauron."

The next day, a Saturday, mother had an appointment with the Admiral. As Meredith was too old for daycare, she accompanied her up the turbolift and into the office of the most important man in the fleet. Mother apologized profusely for her daughter's intruding presence, but the gentleman had only smiled and waggled his fingers at the child.

Meredith had said respectfully, "Hello, Mr. Archer."

He chuckled, his laugh a deep rumbling in his throat. "Hi there, Merry. You know, you can just call me Uncle Jon."

She nodded, and listened as the two discussed impending treaties with such and such a planet and charters with such and such a distribution company. Eventually, she reasoned that if she was in the same building as the Eye, she would only have to climb several flights of stairs in order to reach her destination. Quietly, she slipped out of the room and into the hallway.

After toddling around for a few minutes with no exit in sight, Meredith was forced to come to terms with the fact that she was lost. Sitting against the wall and toying with the ring around her neck, she realized that she had no desire to rid of the beautiful gift her Aunt Hoshi had given her. She was not a magical creature that resided in a distant realm, but rather an ordinary girl that should not have wandered away from her mother.

She's ashamed of herself when she begins to cry, but doesn't seem to notice when a dark-skinned man in a flight suit kneels down to get to eye level with her.

"What are you doing all the way over here, Merry?" Mayweather is concerned. The little girl reaches out for her father's friend and begins to sob into his shoulder.

He could only make out the words 'not special', 'lost', and 'normal' before he intervened, picking her up and nestling her into the crook of his arm. Wagging a finger at her in gentle chastisement, he said, "Now wait just a minute. You're anything but average, Merry!"

The toddler has stopped crying by now, drying her cheeks with her balled fists. "I am?"

"Yeah!" Travis exclaimed, tickling and bouncing her to make her giggle. He begins to walk in the direction of the Admiral's office. "You've got two parents that love you very much. You're very smart, and you're the only little girl I know that speaks Vulcan fluently. When you get to be big, you're going to do great things." He's arrived at his former commanding officer's door, and whispers in her ear like a secret, "Even if you're not a character from a fantasy book."

At that moment, her mother emerges from Archer's office, undoubtedly concerned for her well-being. Noticing her child in the care of her friend, she's relieved. "Merry, you must stop running off without notifying me of where you are going."

Travis grins at her. "We were just on our way to a movie playdate. Fiona should be here any moment now with Alyssa," he says, referring to his daughter. "Didn't she tell you?" He looks at Merry, and she takes the hint, nodding gravely.

Mother looks doubtful, but eventually acquiesces. She addresses Mayweather then, "Please have her home by dinnertime."

"Yes, ma'am!" he salutes her playfully. The two watch as mother turns the corner and disappears from view.

En route once again, Merry asks, "Are we really going to have a playdate today, Mr. Travis?" She's excited.

"Of course we are!" They arrive in the recreation room shortly thereafter, where several children are gathered around a holovideo console. Merry greets Alyssa shyly, and they sit together, as the following words crawl onto the screen:

"A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…"


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Poor Troshi shippers. Someone really needs to throw us a bone once in a while. This is coda to a reference I made in the very first chapter of this ficlet collection about a meeting between the elder Tuckers and Satos shortly after Trip and Hoshi's engagement. A little bit of angst, but a happy ending.

I grew up in a very traditional German Jewish household, and the first time they my extended family met my boyfriend (who is Swedish Mormon) it was a real trip. I seem to remember my uncle asking his what the big deal with violent sport was in America and his father immediately wondered why motor sport was such a thing in the old world. The answer? Who knows. Cultural differences, man. _Whatcha gonna do._

*Side note: All subtle digs at sumo wrestling and American football are not necessarily the opinion of the author and are purely in the interest of comedy. Also, my limited knowledge of Japanese cultural habits should also be excused. Skye is many things, but she is not a weeaboo.

**Intertwining Destinies: Their First Meeting**

**In Which Mr. Sato Mimics That One Crabby Relative That Almost Everyone Has and Hoshi Takes a Stand**

Hoshi Sato bustled around her fiancé's apartment, stopping every so often to straighten a knickknack or move a piece of furniture a few centimeters to the left. She knew that her guests were extremely receptive to whatever environment they happened to be in, and _heaven forbid_ if the position of that vase were to somehow indicate trouble in the household.

Many of her neuroses hadn't lasted past the first few years of her time aboard _Enterprise,_ but they were suddenly coming back with full force. For today, her parents were being flown in from Osaka in order to meet the man that had stolen her heart.

And his parents. Best not to forget them.

Trip wandered in from the kitchen a coffee mug emblazoned with a college logo. From his other hand dangled a dry processed tea bag. Motioning to her, he asked, "Darlin', am I doing this right?"

She sighed heavily and sets to chastising him. "If we're going to make tea for mom and dad, we are going to make it…"

Hoshi reaches into her tote, producing a teapot painted with blooming lotus flowers. Trip stares at it like he's never seen such a thing before. She fills the container with water and sets it to boil. Finally, she finishes her thought, "…from scratch."

He shrugs. "You know best."

"You're right, I do," she teases and wipes her hand on her jeans. Noticing the way his brow has furrowed and how his posture has wilted, she says, "Don't worry, Trip. What's the worst that can happen?"

They're not talking about tea. Trip leans against the counter and murmurs, "I dunno. You know how my folks can get."

"God, do I!" she exclaims and walks past him on her way back into the living area. He swats at her backside playfully.

Hoshi raises her eyebrows in perfect imitation of their Vulcan friend, T'Pol. "Captain, that is most inappropriate!"

"I'd be careful how you speak to a superior officer, Sato, because your ass is already mine," he wiggles his fingers, engagement ring on display.

She raises herself on her toes to give him a peck on the lips. "That may change after our parents meet."

Trip's eyes were wide with shock. "You don't think they'd object to the marriage, do you?"

Hoshi shook her head to indicate the negative. "Trip, my parents are traditional, but not so much so they would disregard their daughter's happiness." She began to make her rounds in the living room, muttering, "They just might not attend the ceremony."

It is a grave offense for one's parents to miss the wedding in more cultures than one, and Trip appears to understand that. Sub-consciously, he kneels by the door and begins to arrange the _genkan_ that Hoshi has purchased for the occasion. Although she's explained their purpose to him before, he's desperate to fill the laden silence one way or another. "What're these fancy flip flops for, again?"

She stoops and assists him to the task. "When entering a Japanese home, it's customary to remove your shoes and put on slippers that the host provides."

Trip's exaggerated look of bewilderment catches her off guard. She knows that he thinks that her people must even have rituals for taking a crap in public. Her smile is good-natured, however, because even she remembers thinking that American customs were crude and strange when she had first come to the country at seventeen.

Above their heads, a loud rapping hits the door and the two stand up so quickly they almost collide in midair. Hoshi straightens Trip's collar for the fifth time in an hour and gives him kiss on the cheek to quell his nerves.

"Be Charles Tucker III, _not_ Trip," he whispers, remembering their discussion about proper greetings and manners. He just hopes that his parents had done their research as well.

"They're the same person, you goof," she reminds him, then opens the door wide.

A second later, Trip is caught in a massive bear hug and Hoshi finds herself being fussed over by Trip's mother, Catherine. She's disoriented momentarily and can hear her future father-in-law saying, "Damn son, it's good to see ya! After all this time!"

"Dad, ya'll were in San Francisco two months ago!" Hoshi remembers. Just fresh out of hearing Archer's speech, tears still running down her cheeks at the gravity of his words, she had barely been able to make conversation. Yet, afterwards, Trip had related to her how his parents had gushed about how sweet his girlfriend had seemed, and pretty too. More so than the pictures.

Hoshi had been relieved. Catherine was an old soul who loved nothing more than an evening of genteel conversation. They had also bonded over their love of cooking; Mrs. Tucker had shared the recipe for Trip's favorite lasagna, and Hoshi had instructed her to make _botamochi_ in preparation for any upcoming garden parties she might be hosting. Although the woman admitted that sweet rice dumplings may not be the preferred choice for the people of Valdosta, she agreed to save it for special occasions. Hoshi knew that she wasn't just giving her lip service; Catherine was nothing if not sincere.

Charles Tucker was a different story—his tendency to make his every mood well known with a shout and an accompanying facial expression made it impossible for the retired engineer to be disingenuous. Hoshi was a quiet person, one whose every action was a portrayal of her precise mood at the time. It had taken a while for her to get used to his boisterous nature, his fondness for strong spirits, and his propensity to discuss sports loudly with any male he came across…oh, and his custom of delivering crushing bear hugs. As he was doing now.

"Family ain't meant to be separated, Trip," he held his future daughter in law at arm's length, before embracing her tightly once again. "Maybe we'll even more up to the bay, do some civilian work." He laughs at this notion.

"We'd be honored," Hoshi assures him, although she catches Trip's look of pure terror over Charles' shoulder.

At the declaration that they would be welcome in San Francisco at any time, Catherine begins to talk excitedly about how she definitely wanted to live closer so she could help plan the impending wedding. A girlfriend of hers makes excellent flower arrangements, and they could be transported in at any time. She would even be able to babysit for any future children they might have—not there was any pressure to start trying already, but a grandbaby or two would be nice. _Or three. Or four._

Hoshi smiles, entertaining her well-intentioned babbling, and guides them into the living area. A few chairs have been brought in from all over the apartment so all present could take a seat; Catherine sits down on the couch while Charles leans against the window frame.

"So when is your mom and pop gonna come along? We didn't travel all this way for nothin', did we?" His eyes sparkle with delight.

"Dad, you just transported in from the fleet outpost in—"

"Dammit, Trip! I know that!" He slings an arm around his son, who is growing more flustered by the second. "I dunno how you wound up with such a spoilsport, Hosh. Seems to me that my boy just specializes in ruinin' our fun."

Hoshi does not fail to notice how Charles abbreviates her name in the exact same way as her fiancé. Finding this quality endearing, she says absently, "Oh, believe me, he has no trouble having a good time."

Trip snickers in spite of himself, and Hoshi elbows him hard. The elder Tuckers seem to ignore this and are jabbering about the sights of the city they want to visit as long as they're here. At that moment, the doorbell rings, heralding the arrival of the Satos.

Hoshi bolts from Trip's side, suddenly filled with nervous energy. Whatever preparations she was going to finish would have to wait.

Bowing from the waist, she greeted the older, well-dressed Japanese couple. Kazumi Sato accepted her daughter's _genkan_ with a nod of her head, offering a broad smile that betrayed her heavy set and wrinkled features. Hoshi knew that both of her parents had worked hard in order to afford her the many opportunities she had had in her younger years, and that effect had not been lost on their appearances.

Hoshi had learned her first dozen dialects sitting beside her mother's desk as she lectured on the romance languages at the University of Tokyo. She had been offered a prestigious scholarship in the accelerated honors program upon her graduation from secondary school, but had turned it down to attend Starfleet Academy. Hoshi knew that this had crushed her mother's spirit, as she had been practically bred from birth to take her place and increase the already strong notoriety of the family name. Now, whenever she saw her mother, her speech was brisk, her pleasant smile strained.

Her father, Michio Sato, had not understood his daughter's desire to explore the world and later the universe. He had inherited his name and the family business from his father, who kept a tight handle on his actions even as it became clear that trading bonds on Japan's biggest stock exchange made him miserable. It appeared that he had realized his mistake too late, and grandfather had played a vital role in Hoshi's decision to live abroad. Seeing her father's hunched shoulders and perpetual frown reminded her of her only one true fear in this life: growing old without a sense of fulfillment in her accomplishments.

Michio was now turning his nose up at the size of the entryway, the decor, Hoshi's casual style of dress, and everything in between. It did not take much to determine that the man was displeased. She bowed her head once again and directed them into the sitting room, saying, "Thank you for coming."

Politely, Kazumi asks, "Where is this boy you say you're marrying?"

For someone who has spent decades studying verb tense and sentence structure, the stilted verbosity is not lost on Hoshi. She narrows her eyes a bit and huffs.

"This is…"

"Captain Charles Tucker III," Trip interrupts, making sure to emphasize his title. Realizing his indiscretion at that moment, he bows deeply and with flourish.

"Captain? Then why do you not have you own ship?"

"I elected to stay on Earth and build the infrastructure for the new Warp 7 engine, sir," Trip replies.

Michio is not impressed, it seems. He crosses his arms behind his back and sniffs, saying nothing.

The silence is unbearable.

"I'll go check on the tea," Hoshi excuses herself, immediately feeling like a coward. After living in such a stifling household for the first seventeen years of her life, she feels as if she can't stand it any longer.

In the kitchen, she takes the pot off of the stove and pours it into several delicate china cups. Separated by a thin partition alone that does not shield even half of the opening between the rooms, she sees Charles Tucker approach her father with a wry grin. Catherine reaches out for his sleeve, misses, and falls back onto the couch. This isn't a matter that he can fix with a little bit of positivity, and both women know it.

"I'm the boy's dad, but ya'll can call me Charles," he sticks his hand out for a handshake.

Michio looks at it like it's on fire.

"Ah, I see. Ya'll are jus' shy. Ya know, why don't I call ya Mitch?" Charles chuckles, displaying his typically charming propensity for giving nicknames to nearly everyone he meets.

Hoshi hears the signs before she sees them. The scoff and sudden intake of breath are classic indicators of her father's wrath. She steps back into the living room with the tea tray just in time to hear her father say, "I'll have you know that I—"

"Father," she interjects and gives him a sharp glare. She hopes to express that the Tuckers have no knowledge of traditional Japanese social customs and are only trying to be friendly, but she is unable to stop her father's rant before it begins.

"I have never witnessed such poor manners in all of my life! First this boy does not even ask for my blessing in marrying my daughter, and then his parents speak to us like we are some sort of backwards, country—"

"Dad!" she repeats, slamming the platter down on the coffee table. Tea splatters everywhere within a three foot radius, and even Catherine starts at her audaciousness. The room is silent for some time, and then Hoshi practically growls, "May I please see you in the hall?"

The Satos look bewildered, but follow their daughter out into the corridor. Hoshi decides that if she doesn't take a stand now, she might never get the chance to. She hisses between her teeth, "Do you even hear yourselves?"

Her mother begins to speak, but is cut off. "This is a man that I love very much, and you're judging his family for not acting and not speaking and not conducting themselves in the way that we do?" She shakes her head incredulously.

"I know you're disappointed in me for not remaining in your shadow and not running home every time I've missed you, but I've made a life for myself here. And, God knows, I'm _happy!"_

A short, sharp bark of laughter escapes her lips. "Yes, I really am! You two may not understand how that even works, but you need to recognize that just because I'm not following in your footsteps, that doesn't mean I love you any less!"

Kazumi and Michio are either shocked or angered into silence, she can't tell. Throwing her hands in the air in defeat, she exclaims, "You're welcome to leave if that's what you want. There's a pod station on the next street corner."

Hoshi then turns and starts to walk back into the apartment. To her surprise, her mother catches her arm and deigns to say three words that she never has before in her presence.

"I am sorry."

"You…really?" she's in disbelief.

Michio sighs heavily, saying, "This path you have chosen in life unfamiliar to us. We only want the best for you, _aiko."_

At the informal address, Hoshi softens. "I know, dad. But I'm a grown woman now, and you've got to trust that I can handle these challenges on my own."

Kazumi nods emphatically, but her father looks as if he might disagree. Much like she had done to Trip earlier, her mother sticks her elbow in his side and looks at him for his acquiescence.

Both parties are surprised when he drops his stony exterior and pulls his daughter into a tight embrace.

-0-

Half an hour later, Charles Tucker balances a PADD on his upturned knees, describing to Michio Sato the finer points of American football.

"So, the object of the game is to guide the ball into a designated zone."

"Yessir. Don't ya'll have this across the pond? It seems that I mighta seen a few Japanese teams in a league."

Michio nods. "That may be, but I have never participated in the viewing of such a sporting event." The pair is quiet for a few minutes as Catherine and Hoshi are enjoying their tea and Trip is looking on with interest.

"Are the spectators often so many in number?"

"Indeed they are. It's a 'merican pastime, Mr. Sato."

"Such fascination with such an uncivilized activity," he marvels, not intending offense.

Charles doesn't take any. Snickering, he retorts, "Says the gentleman who comes from the civilization that pioneered the art of havin' fat men knock each other 'round with their rolls."


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Sure I didn't update last night as I usually do, but you all are spoiled anyway. There's a little nod to an excellent ficlet written by Anna Yolei about ten (!) years ago. If you manage to catch it, you win the prize. Slight trigger warnings for miscarriage and infant death in this chapter.

Don't be shy to make suggestions or tell me what you might like to see in this series in the future.

Next time-Jhamel and Talla's day out.

**Intertwining Destinies: A Fatherly Sabbatical**

**The One Where Trip Dumps His Problems on Cutler and Matilda's Existence is Explained**

Captain Charles Tucker III was in the midst of a crowded public transit car on his way uptown. The dew from an early morning rain shower was still settling into the air, and faintly he could smell the distinct scent of ocean water. Leaving his home by the bay to travel into the polluted sprawl of San Francisco on a weekend was hardly his idea of fun, but lately he had been feeling overwhelmed and decided that the most efficient way to rid of his mental strain was to offload as many stressors as possible and take the day off.

His wife, Hoshi, had elected to work overtime in order to prepare her students for final exams in the coming weeks. Her herculean efforts to perfect the universal translator during their _Enterprise_ mission had nearly made her choice of career obsolete, but luckily for her, the Board of Directors had passed legislation requiring each new Coalition recruit to master at least one alien language before joining active duty. Now, Hoshi taught Vulcan, Klingon, Andorian, Tellarite, and quite a few Xindi dialects all from the comfort of a cavernous lecture hall that had been built exactly to her liking. She adored her job, and Trip loved to see her happy.

He reaches out and seizes his son's collar before the child collides unceremoniously with a couple standing near them. Trip lowers his voice and chastises softly, "Charlie, you should hold onto the railin' so that doesn't happen."

The boy looks remorseful, but Trip knows that his mischievous nature is hereditary. Within a few minutes, the six-year-old would be acting up once again.

Although Charlie had inherited minor Asiatic features from his mother, including olive shaped and dark eyes, he had miraculously been born with his father's famous sandy blonde hair. Trip had taken genetics at the academy, and had thought that was impossible. But, here the child was, every bit as stubborn as his mom and as rambunctious as dad, defying all of the odds.

Finally, the tone that signals the car's arrival at Academy Station rings out above the din. A small mob of commuting students and instructors move towards the exits, but Trip and Charlie manage to escape first. He sets the pace, striding quickly ahead of the dispersing crowd.

Trip keeps looking over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure his son is there; sometime around his fifth birthday the boy insisted that he was now too old to hold his father's hand while walking in a public place. Charlie was mature for his age, but the child would stop on a dime and follow any distraction he would find along their path. Trip didn't want to risk it.

At last, the two reach the pavilion of the natural sciences complex. There, Elizabeth Cutler stands with her arms crossed behind her, a vented glass jar at her feet.

Charlie approaches with interest, and Trip jogs to catch up with him. Over his son's head, he says, "Thank ya, Liz. You have no idea how much I'm needin' some time away."

The young woman smiles. "It's no trouble, really, as long as you don't mind him visiting the entomology lab."

Trip shakes his head to indicate the negative. The scientist kneels, picking up the clear vessel, and holds it up at eye level with the child.

"This is the greater spotted Dralaxian hissing spider," Liz explains, having acquired his full attention. "It can spit its venom up to fifty meters."

The boy seems to be captivated as she lets this sink in. "Do you want to see it in action, Charlie?"

He nods emphatically and slips his hand into Elizabeth's. As the two begin to walk away, Trip calls out his goodbyes and prompts to keep Charlie safe, as if she needs to be reminded. For someone with no children of her own, Cutler was truly amazing with kids.

Moments later, he's crossed the main quad and entered campus' elite lodging facilities. Climbing nearly fifty stories into the San Francisco skyline, it had been Hoshi's preferred choice when they had accepted their respective positions, but Trip hadn't been able to picture living in a home without a massive yard and dozens of windows that let in copious amounts of natural light. They toured several houses, and Hoshi had eventually agreed to settle down by the bay even though their yearly traveling expenses would be exorbitant. From the way she spent most of the evening in the porch swing with her feet propped up, Trip could surmise that she had made good with the compromise eventually.

He ascended the lift several floors, and rang the chime of a door some ways down a long corridor. Within, he could hear a surprised exclamation and the sound of tiny feet pattering their way across the carpet. There was a pause, and then the door opened just a crack.

Merry Reed eyed her visitor with trepidation, holding a finger up to her lips. "Hello, Uncle Trip," she whispers, stepping aside to let him in.

Trip steps inside as the bubbly three-year-old returns to the couch and her picture book. When he asks where her father is, she only tilts her head in the direction of another door, but remains silent.

He takes the hint, almost tiptoeing into the next room. It's dark save for the light of a flickering candle. Malcolm, eyes half closed and serene, slowly rocks his newborn daughter back and forth in his arms.

Matilda T'Mir Reed, Mattie or even Tillie for short, had been born only a few weeks before under extenuating circumstances. While Meredith had been brought into the world with the help of a manufactured enzyme that made iron- and copper-based blood compatible, Matilda had been conceived naturally. This surprised even the most educated of physicians at Starfleet Medical, as the pregnancy had gone undetected until nearly the middle of the first trimester. Phlox had warned T'Pol that the possibility of miscarriage or stillbirth was significant even if his concoction was administered for the entire rest of the term. So, no one had been surprised when after nearly twelve hours of labor and an emergency cesarean section, the girl had been born severely underweight and unresponsive to stimulus.

Trip and Hoshi had been there, only able to stand aside as their two closest friends encircled the incubation chamber, watching their child fight to breathe. He had prayed harder than any preacher's wife for that little girl to pull through, and eventually she had.

Fourteen days after her birth, the baby had been brought home for the first time. Much to everyone's relief, Matilda continued to grow in strength ever since.

T'Pol, however, had not returned to work. The birthing process had been extremely taxing on her body and mind; Trip had been taken aback by how pale she appeared every time they crossed paths. This worried Malcolm as well. If his wife was not able to stay at home with the children, he would. For the first time in his life, he had been eating away at the extensive vacation time that he accrued after years of working himself to the bone. For a few weeks, he had been withdrawn and unwilling to socialize, but after the chaos had settled a bit, he was back to his regular semi-agreeable self.

Malcolm notices his friend out of the corner of his eye, and motions for him to wait. As Trip watches, he lightly kisses Mattie's temple and sets her into her crib. Unlike Merry, she had been born with only a ghosting of dark hair across her crown and forehead. Her eyes were black as night, and seemed to possess extraordinary capabilities in discernment. It was a little unsettling how penetrating her gaze was; it made Trip wonder if Matilda would be as intelligent as her sister…_or more so._

Malcolm drapes a receiver across the railing, and clips the monitor to his belt. As the two turn and approach the living room, he catches his friend by the arm.

His expression is openly fearful. "She never responds when I sing to her anymore, nor when we chatter to her. Do you think she might be—"

"Phlox said that she might develop somethin' as she grows as a result of bein' a hybrid, didn't he?" Not wanting to linger on the topic of Matilda's possible deafness, he asks, "Where's your better half?"

"Another appointment with the Vulcan healers, seems like meditation with me simply is not enough," Malcolm is contemplative, and Trip slaps his arm.

"Hey, no pity parties here," he motions to Merry, who is absorbed in her book. "She's bein' so quiet, your girl. I'm proud of her."

He smiles and ruffles his daughter's hair as her passes. She glares at him for a split second, sticking her tongue out. When Trip looks back again, her head is bent down once more.

"So, what brings you to our home?" Malcolm asks, rubbing his palms together and walking towards the kitchen.

Trip follows him, "The fact that you're keepin' alcohol in that fridge of yours."

Malcolm glances at him incredulously. "It's not even midday."

The southerner shrugs and sits at the kitchenette island. His friend makes an offhanded comment that he should have known that such a request was forthcoming, then stoops to remove a pitcher of brightly-colored liquid from the bottom shelf.

"You probably tried this when you visited Shi'Kahr. It's the juice of the _tono'pak._ It's an acquired taste, but my family likes it. Isn't that right, Merry?"

The little girl doesn't even look in their direction, but gives them a thumbs-up.

Trip takes a healthy swig, then resists the urge to spit it out when he sees his Malcolm's hopeful expression. "Damn Vulcans," he mutters. "Everythin' tastes so bitter."

"Says the man who downs full draughts of Kentucky bourbon in a single sitting." Malcolm swipes the tumbler away, his tone teasing.

Once the two have served themselves with cans of soda, the Brit asks, "Is Hoshi with Charlie?"

"Nah. Liz is watchin' the lil' demon while Hoshi's with her students."

This spurs Malcolm into a long rant about how he couldn't imagine having to instruct a room full of fresh faces skills that he acquired by long periods of trial and error. They're both fortunate to work for research and development, he says. Ultimately and with a sly grin, he reminds Trip that if he can't handle one little one, how does he expect to survive once the second child comes along?

Trip ponders this. Hoshi had discovered she was pregnant only days before Matilda's birth, so she was still riding the tides of repeated bouts of morning sickness and extravagant cravings. He knew that there was not a lot he could do to help her, but still felt like a bad husband even though he tried to come up with little things to make her days easier. Attempting to force that particular negative thought out of his mind, he says, "I can't be for sure, Mal, but I think I know exactly when this one was conceived."

Malcolm sips his drink and prompts him to continue.

"Remember the Admiral's Ball? The one that Erika and Jon snuck the four of us into because they didn't want to be stuck in a room with a bunch of stuffy old brass for the night?"

"Of course," he had attended the event with his wife on his arm. Unfortunately, due to T'Pol's advanced pregnancy, they spent a majority of their time at the table observing the other couples dance. Nevertheless, they had enjoyed the evening, pointing out various unfamiliar figures and creating tales of strangers' lives in an activity that was both slightly juvenile and wholly satisfying. Around the time they had surmised that the Vice Admiral of the Andorian air forces secretly enjoyed soaking in mud in his free time like a common Tellarite, Hoshi and Trip had disappeared and could not be found for the rest of the occasion.

What Trip says next confirms his suspicions. "Well, they were right…it really _was_ boring…"

"You didn't!" Malcolm exclaims, scoffing in disbelief. "You should have learned from our mistake at your wedding!"

"Hey, good things came out of that!" he protested.

"Sure they did," Malcolm admitted, "but Archer couldn't look me in the eye for weeks after the incident."

Trip rolls his eyes, leans back into his chair, and gazes at the ceiling in scrutiny. "I've been thinkin', though…what if we have another boy?"

"What if?" he repeated sardonically, "You'll love the child all the same."

He shrugs. "I dunno. Sometimes havin' a son is more trouble than it's worth. There's a sayin' back home: little boys are made of slugs and—"

"…snails and puppy dog tails, yes," Malcolm cut in, "I know where you are going with this. I assure you, having daughters is just as challenging."

Trip's expression conveyed his disbelief, and he reassures him, "Honestly. Eventually they'll be dating and gossiping and then when they all come of age I have to start dealing with…" Malcolm eyes his eldest daughter, reading obliviously on the couch, then leans in to whisper, "…three, Trip. _At one time._ I don't know how I'm going to survive."

"Like my dad and I did when Lizzie and mom came about at once," Trip chuckled, "keep your head down and stay out of their way."

Malcolm sighs, "I digress. I adore my girls, but you must have it off easy."

"You'd think. Charlie may be just like me when I was his age, but if that's true, I have no idea how my parents restrained themselves from slappin' me upside the head."

At the mention of her friend, Merry snaps to attention and bounds to her father's side. "Daddy! Is Charlie coming over?"

Trip takes the liberty of answering her question. "No, ma'am, but I'm here. If you wanna run along and get your toys, I'd be happy to play with ya."

Merry giggles. "Uncle Trip, I'm too old for toys."

He exchanges an amused glance with Malcolm, then leans down to better converse with the well-spoken three-year-old. "Well, missy, what are we interested in this week?"

The little girl begins to bounce up and down and titter excitedly. Her father grins and says, "The works of Tolkien, just the same. Merry, why do you not get your sketchbook and show Uncle Trip your drawings of Mr. Frodo's friends?"

She scampered away, leaving Trip to shrug and mumble, "I guess I won't be gettin' that beer today after all."

"No surprise there," Malcolm rounds the island and comes to stand beside him. Laying a palm on his shoulder, he declares, "In all seriousness, don't you worry about your capabilities to provide for your family or be a good spouse, Trip. You've already set a precedent."

"I guess I have. It's just that…after Lizzie died, I started to doubt how strong I could be when it really counted…ya know, _emotionally."_

Malcolm nods solemnly. "Whatever happens, Trip, you know I'll be there for you."

The two enjoy companionable silence for a few moments, and then Malcolm pronounces, "I do owe you a favor for how you pulled me out of a rut after Matilda's birth."

Trip smirks. "Who are you, Captain Shran? What's all this talk of favors?"

"You never know when it might come in handy. Perhaps I could use it to bribe you into silence the next time T'Pol and I are caught in a compromising situation."

"Not a chance," Trip snickers, "besides, the instances of that are few and far between."

The glimmer of light in Malcolm's eyes is positively wicked. "You never know." He reaches behind him and retrieves his glass, offering it for a toast. "To the women who graciously abandoned all logical reasoning and agreed to marry two absolutely clueless blokes like us—"

"I'm not sure I like where this is going."

He holds up a palm, urging him to wait. "—and to fatherhood, and clearer skies on the horizon."

"Hear, hear."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: A few of you were wondering where I was going to take the notion that RTP's second daughter may be deaf, and I've decided to forge ahead into the bottomless pit of character development. Hooray for heightened representation of handicapped persons, and may that notion only grow from here.

Written as a part of the one hour fanfiction challenge...I often spend such a long time agonizing over each chapter that it never turns out as I intended. Tonight, one night only, let the plot bunnies run free.

**Intertwining Destinies: Our Differences**

**The One Where Merry Defends Her Sister's Honor**

The first time that Meredith came home from school crying, she was nine years old and her younger sister Matilda was in tow. The two arrived at their home precisely three minutes ahead of schedule, surprising their parents, who were cuddled together on the couch enjoying a moment of peace before their twin whirlwinds were set to make an appearance.

At his eldest daughter's distraught expression, Malcolm rose and gathered her in her arms. She was getting taller and a little bit too heavy to be carried as she once was, but that was no deterrent for him where his offspring were concerned. She buried her head into his shoulder and began to sob noisily as he stroked her tangled mop of dusky hair.

"Merry, you must cease this immediately," T'Pol says, and her insistence reflects the intense waves of sentiment flowing from her daughter and billeting about the room. She had never had any qualms about her children expressing emotions, but her maternal instincts were fierce. "Tell us what has happened."

The girl sniffles several times, then cuts in at a frantic pace, "IwaswithCharlieandsomeofthebigboyscamearoundand—"

Malcolm patted her back softly, "Slowly, darling."

Merry took a deep, shattering breath, and then begins to explain.

"Me and Charlie Tucker were with Mattie during recess. Daddy, she only just started school and she's not very…" she trailed off, glancing at her five-year-old sister. Her eyes were narrowed as she kept pace with the conversation by reading lips.

Matilda had been born premature and mostly deaf; she could hear extremely loud noises and could feel vibrations set off by music or an approaching entity, but otherwise her world was a silent one. Her eyes were her most distinguishing feature—ever since she had reached the age where she could appropriately express her wishes, she kept her hair severely swept back and tied at half-length so that one of her only means of interaction would not be hindered. It was shocking how the girl could stop someone's advance with only a sharp, penetrating glance.

She had communicated mostly by sensation relayed by the familial bond she shared with her parents and sister. However, at T'Pol's behest, every member of the household soon became proficient in the mostly archaic practice of American Sign Language. Before Mattie could attend school, she must have a way in which to communicate; with the help of Hoshi Tucker, a universal translator that could interpret her gestures into verbalized syntax was developed. Within the first few weeks, this device that fit like a wristwatch allowed the child to impress both her teachers and her peers with her intellectual acuity and quick wit.

This, nevertheless, placed a huge target on her back for bullies.

Malcolm cleared his throat, prompting Merry to continue. "She's not very well-liked. They think that just 'cause someone's different, that means they're bad….they've got no logic, mommy!" She furrows her brow, and it's evident that she doesn't see how anyone could hold such an ignorant belief.

T'Pol shifts in place and begins to formulate a plan as to how to explain the nature of bigotry to her young daughter, but listens to her complete her story in the meantime.

"And then they called her…they called her a retard. She was laughing at something I said, and they just wouldn't let that _go."_

Mattie's eyebrows are now almost at her hairline. She's fully aware that her condition has made her speech garbled, unintelligible, and that to other people it might sound strange. Then, as if the child cannot stand to remain silent any longer, she begins to sign rapidly.

_"Mother, am I really that awful word they called me?"_

T'Pol holds up her hands to respond, then pauses as she feels her heart wrench. She had felt the burden of social stigma several times. She recalls the disdainful look of her former peers who had judged her for being taken advantage of by Tolaris and given Pa'nar Syndrome. When she had announced her engagement to Malcolm, several of her colleagues had refused to speak to her for days. This all paled in comparison to her nearly complete exclusion from her own people when she had decided to stay aboard Enterprise. And she had indeed borne it all, opting to suffer and mull the pain in solitude.

Suddenly, she rises and kneels before her daughter. Placing a hand on either side of her face, she begins to move her lips slowly so that she may know exactly what she is saying. "I believe you already know the answer to that."

Matilda is confused momentarily, and then begins to nod as the fog of cognizance clears steeply. T'Pol holds her hand out to Meredith, who accepts and draws closer. Affording one more glance at her equally distressed husband, she says, "This is what you both must do…"

-0-

"I don't like it, Merry. These guys could really hurt you." Charlie Tucker frowned and dug his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "Let me take care of them. They're my age, after all."

Merry sizes up her friend, already twelve years old and—she believed—much more worldly and experienced then she. But her mother had made a very specific request, and she would hate to disappoint her. "No. I gotta do this myself."

Charlie looked conflicted, but only nodded and waved her on.

She took Mattie's hand and stepped out of his earshot. "Listen, I want you to stay with Charlie. Read lips if you have to." Merry looks over her shoulder at her foes, which are leaning against the swing set imposingly. "Whatever you do, don't come over there. Do you understand me?"

Matilda made a small noise, as if she was contemplating this. Merry raises a single eyebrow in an impeccable impression of their mother, and she shrugs.

_"Okay."_ The UT seems to pick up on the haste in which she made the motion, as the audio recording is somehow strained with emotion. The sisters embrace a final time, and then Merry turns and begins to walk quickly away.

They call to her from quite a distance away. "Hey, look! It's the crippled's sister!"

The other boys jeer at this assertion, but the girl only sets her jaw and comes to a halt before them.

"Merry, you know my daddy works with yours? Guess what he said the other day? You and your sister…" he steps closer, his eyes shining menacingly. "You're bastard kids."

When she doesn't react, he tries again. "Half-breeds. You're not Vulcan and you're not human, neither. So what are you?"

Another joins in the melee. "Well, we all know what _that one_ is." He's pointing to where Mattie stands, her hand clasped in Charlie's.

Cries of 'moron' and 'stupid' and 'disabled' inundate the air. A sizable mob of children is gathering. It's only minutes until a playground monitor is alerted to the situation. For Meredith, it's now or never.

"You may act tough, but you're just talk!"

The crowd grows quiet at her declaration and press closer. Her heart begins to race faster as one of the older boys gets into her face.

"Who do you think you are, idiot?"

"Me? Oh, I know who _I_ am, and apparently you're familiar with my family. So, tell me…" she waves her arms about, gesturing to the throng of her peers. "…what makes my sister worse of a person than anyone else?"

The boys are taken aback, and begin to mumble amongst themselves.

"We've all got things that are funny about us. Like you, Andy—" she points to the one who had challenged her moments ago. "You had to go to speech therapy until last year. But no one makes fun of you for your accent anymore, do they?"

Merry begins to move around the circle, pointing out a diverse selection of her classmates. "Sabina has two mommies. Abdul lived in a public home for a few months because his parents couldn't afford food. Grik came over from Tellar just last year. Polina walks with crutches. And, my sister Matilda can't hear."

She pauses to let this sink in, then persists, "What's so bad about being a little different? It just makes you interesting. I couldn't imagine having such low self-esteem that I've got to pick on people just because they don't live like I do. It seems to me that those people are just too dumb to realize that there's a bigger world outside their front door."

Her fellow students are now whispering to each other excitedly, knowing the confrontation will soon reach a climax.

Now it's Merry's turn to get into someone's space. Standing on her tip toes to look him in the eye, she grinds out, "So, I'll ask again. What makes Mattie worse than anyone else?"

The boy glares at her, considering his next move. After some floundering and sputtering, he kicks some dirt on her shoes and hisses, "You aren't worth it."

Meredith steps back and places her hands on her hips. "Really, I should be saying the same to you."

Turning smartly on her heels, she disappears into the crowd.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Have the insulin injections ready, because Skye has romance on the brain.

My parents always claimed to have two anniversaries. The first one is just this week, celebrating them running away to America to get married in the face of disapproving parents. The second is in December, whereupon they returned to Germany to make it official after the dust had settled down. They've been together twenty-five years, and I couldn't be more happy that they still are enamored with each other after all this time.

A colleague of mine recently married, and I honored a year committed to my partner Nat. The past few days have been a beautiful flurry of celebration. And because we're already layering on the cheese...this is a songfic. (Hello, 2006.) Check out _Hard To Tell_ by Young Galaxy and _Shucks_ by Dungeonesse. There's also slight references to my companion piece _Everything But The Armor_.

In the meantime...tell me about the love of your life, in the comments or by private message. It's probably asking for trouble, but I love listening to people get excited about something they're passionate about.

Next: What's this about Hoshi losing a wager and having to get a tattoo?

**Intertwining Destinies: What We Leave Behind**

**The One Where Everyone Waxes Poetic and Everything is Sickeningly Sweet**

Breathless and soaked to the skin, the forms of two adults dashed across the lawn of the townhouse in the murky obscurity of the twilight. A rainstorm had beset the village in the late afternoon, transforming the River Dovey into a veritable wall of fog and mist. This, of course, had put a damper on the festivities; it would have certainly been more effectual if more than a handful of people had attended.

A certain gentleman was rummaging for a pair of keys in the pocket of his tuxedo, silently cursing the outdated yet quaint amenities of his ancestral homeland. Since the news of his impending nuptials had broken, the media had been avid on the trails of himself and his bride. Following a falling out of sorts with his family over the nature of his most treasured relationship, it became apparent that a change of venue was necessary.

He had vaguely recalled visiting an aunt in the north of Wales when he was only a child. The woman in question was long since deceased, her property willed to her surviving relatives and allowed to fall into disrepair. A frantic call to a local handyman later, and the home and the grounds it resided on were arranged to be repaired in a matter of days.

Time was a loaded gun in more ways than one, it seemed. They were set to return to San Francisco in less than one week's time, and it was best not to arouse suspicions with a delayed departure.

The heavy door to the cottage was thrown open, and the couple was surprised to find a healthy fire awaiting them in the reading alcove. The woman moved off from his side, finding a handwritten note nestling atop the mantle.

_It looks like we beat you out of town. Don't worry—we took the liberty of arranging a transport pod for two days from this evening. The way things are looking up, it seems like you two deserve some time alone together._

_With love, Trip and Hoshi_

She fingered the nearly dried flower petals affixed to the top of the correspondence, remnants from a decidedly Terran tradition that she had consented to when they had laid the foundation for the ceremony nearly one year ago. Murmuring something to herself about the fulfillment of promises, she heard her husband sigh heavily and sink into the couch behind her.

She eyed his defeated expression and noticed with dismay that he had seated himself akimbo, his waterlogged suit collecting moisture in rivulets onto the cushions. Any attempts to restore him to his formerly jovial mood would be futile.

Relieving herself of the outer layer of her formal robes, she curled into his side and rested her head on her shoulder in a way not entirely familiar but comforting all the same. Reflexively, he drew her petite frame to his chest, burying his face into her hair.

"This is not what you deserved," his voice is choked with emotion.

She intertwines her fingers with his. "On the contrary, I believe that I once stated that I didn't care for the means as much as the outcome."

He scoffs in disbelief, pulling away from her only for a moment. "You mean, after all of the things we've had to go through, you would still have me?"

She's taken aback by this question. Hoping to convey the dubious rationality of his inquiry, she opens her mouth to speak.

"Honorable Admiral Stuart Reed of the Royal Navy goes on record before the papers to say that he doesn't support our marriage, and he won't attend the ceremony! His own son, and he can't bring himself to lose his air of bigotry for a moment! And mother agreed with him, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world!"

She recalls the incident, as the pain of being fundamentally rejected by her mate's kin still harbored fresh wounds. The introductory dinner hadn't gone as planned, and as the small cadre had exited the restaurant they were accosted by reporters that had somehow been tipped off to their location. An argument had ensued over whether the episode had been planned by Malcolm's family had been purposefully sabotaged.

She wouldn't have doubted if it had.

The encounter ended with an intervention on the part of a benevolent Madeline Reed, who had come between the two warring parties in an entirely practiced manner. As she led T'Pol and her brother away from the scene, her keen Vulcan sense of hearing caught the elder Reeds discussing the particulars of the 'abominable' ceremony that would have taken place the following weekend. Their every plan, it seemed, had been thwarted.

Their excursion to Britain had been spur of the moment, really. Within weeks of their reintroduction at the Tucker-Sato wedding, she had moved out of her temporary lodgings near the Vulcan compound in Sausalito and into his apartment. It had seemed like a rash decision at the time, but both were cognizant of the fact that hesitance was their relationship's one true foil. How much time could they have saved, he often wondered, if they had made their feelings known during _Enterprise_'s mission?

One night, full of masculine self-assurance and fresh from a heart-to-heart with his best friend, Malcolm returned home with a stiff jewelry box in one hand and two transport tickets in the other. Approaching her as she sat awake waiting for him, he had begun to stutter and stumble through his premeditated spiel. She had waited for him to complete his speech before embracing him and assuring him that, yes, after all this time, a quick ceremony would only be logical.

She squeezes his hand and cuts in, "I doubt that the former High Command would have looked upon the events of the past few days in a favorable light, either."

His expression is incredulous. "You mean, you haven't heard from anyone from your past since we went public?"

She stands and proceeds to run her fingers through her hair, shaking droplets of water onto the planks of the wooden floor. "I have. Both T'Pau and Soval were eager to express their congratulations."

"No one else?"

She shrugs, a mannerism that she has adopted after spending such an extended period of time in the company of humans. "That would be different."

"How so?" He's watching her intently now, enchanted by the slight sway of her hips in the russet glow of the fireplace.

"Even if they had reached out to me…" she turns to face him, the gleam in her eyes a bit challenging, "I wouldn't have been interested in their opinion."

He laughs then, a welcome diversion from the heavy mood that had beset the room. Standing suddenly, he grabs her hand and drags her to the staircase.

"Where are we going?" she asks coyly as they make their way upstairs.

He disregards the question, only bothering to whisper her name as he walks her backwards into the bedroom at the end of the hall.

-0-

Only a few moments after the chronometer has indicated the changing hour, some instinct or ingrained behavior jars him from his sleep. Flinching slightly as he registers the dead weight of the warm female body in his arms, he reflexively trains his eyes towards the ceiling. He blinks slowly several times, allowing his thick, dark lashes to dance against the upper rim of his cheekbones. Although he is hesitant to abandon the definitive comfort of his current position, a brief glance to his right reaffirms his resolve.

The window is open, and it's cold.

He slips from his wife's arms and makes his way to the casement, muttering something about irresponsible handymen and how he would not be held responsible for the pre-dawn moisture causing the ancient wallpaper to curl. As he carefully covers the sill, he stops to survey the scene.

T'Pol's features are serene, a smile having spread unbidden across her lips as she waded through the incomprehensible sea of dreamland. A muted pattern of light danced across the bedspread and across the headboard, casting an eerie glow onto her auburn tresses. He's never seen her so vulnerable, so entrancing. It reminds him of the innumerable lazy morning they had spent cuddled together in just the same manner.

It reminds him of the first time they had made love.

As soon as he laid eyes on her that evening, he knew that he was bound to succumb to her wishes. With her seduction, every gesture was purposeful, and Malcolm suddenly found himself wanting to commit to something decidedly unplanned.

Allowing her control to slip once was one thing, but returning to him after their reintroduction was another. This time, she knew exactly what she wanted. Her intensity both frightened and intrigued him, as it always had.

In the evening, he had been distressed, unsure of how his marriage could possibly function in the face of such significant opposition. Now, he knew that he could easily spend the rest of his life in the same position, forever having his cool-headed rationalizations countered by time tempered vehemence.

His wife stirs, tensing at the registry of unfamiliar surroundings. She opens her eyes and studies him with sleepy fervor, blinking slowly.

Malcolm is tickled by the notion that she awakens much like a child does, even at her more advanced age. He treats her to a broad smile.

Kneeling beside the bed, he takes her outstretched hand in his and gently kisses it, murmuring, "Have you ever been to a castle, my love?"

She stretches slightly and shifts her body so she lays horizontally in his direction. "You do not wish to spend our day here?"

He indicates the negative and continues with his thought. "It's in ruin, alright, but it's by the sea. I was there once with my family when I was a small boy."

T'Pol props herself up on her elbows and appears confused. Just last night, he was unwilling to venture into the open, where the public might witness them. She was sure that the media would be alerted to their presence eventually, and their excursion would look a failure. Although that was a distinct possibility, it was an afterthought as she questioned, "Are you sure it is worth it?"

His eyes crinkled at the corners, straining from the excess joy he is feeling. "I can promise you that it always will be."

They both know that they will spend the next few decades in repose, forever hiding the particulars of their attachment from others. To outsiders, they might remain aloof, but in private…

He know it doesn't look like much, but it's love. He knows that it's good enough.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Did you think I was going to neglect my Troshi shippers, even for a second? For once, this is a drabble proper. I mentioned Hoshi losing a bet to Trip in one of my earlier chapters, and decided to go back and tie up that particular loose end. It's only fair. I mean...you guys had to suffer through the RTP honeymoon. I don't blame you if you're still shaken up.

I've been working the past few days to get my notes together and prepare for the next part of this series...the teenage years. My baby OCs can't stay children forever, but all the same. God help us all.

**Intertwining Destinies: Kitsch City**

**The One Where The Tuckers Get Tricked and Hoshi Gets Inked**

"Trip, this is _not_ funny," Hoshi chastised firmly, although she was having a hard time maintaining her focus while the sound of her husband's exaggerated guffaws billeted about the room.

The man in question had fallen to his knees with all the power of his laughter, shaking with mirth. "I knew it! I just _knew_ it! Why else would Jon and Erika recommend this place to us?!"

Recognizing that he was nowhere near regaining sobriety, she sighed dramatically and fell backwards onto the plush bed of the resort's best honeymoon suite.

Immediately, she was met with her reflection, pouting slightly and arms crossed defiantly. This could not be happening.

But…then again…it most decidedly _was._

Seconds later, Trip had followed suit, his head propped up in his palm in order to display the smug grin that was plastered across his face. He didn't even have to say anything before Hoshi clutched her cheeks and began to giggle herself.

"I thought this was going to be a classy place, what with its reputation and—"

"Well, I guess that notion's been shot to hell," he interrupted wryly, motioning towards the full length mirror that covered the ceiling. "I 'spose we'll get used to it eventually."

"You're probably right," she replied, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, savoring the temporary serenity. It was only the first night of a glorious two weeks the Tuckers would spend together in the Caribbean, soaking up some sun and getting into more trouble than either of them were probably worth.

"Hosh'…you still lost the bet!"

"Don't remind me," the woman exclaimed, standing and slinging a knitted shawl over her shoulders. As Trip stood to join her, she decided that if she was going to really go through with it, she might as well be a good sport. "Your terms. That was the deal."

As the two left the hotel and strolled along the boardwalk in search of the shop they had both seen upon their arrival, Hoshi asked, "So, what is it that I'm going to be getting?"

"My name," he responded drolly, his tongue moving around in his cheek.

"Your name?" She was strangely satisfied with the notion. What better way to solidify their union than making sure that everyone knew that she was his?

"Yes, ma'am. You wanna know where?"

Hoshi had a feeling that he was only messing with her, but decided to humor him. "Where?"

As he lightly slapped the area in question, she jumped and let out a small yip of surprise. Starting at his abject flirtatiousness, she allowed herself to be dragged into the tattoo parlor and shown to the attendant.

"Just a few little letters and numbers for the lady, please, wherever she wants them. I'd like to commemorate the place where we first met."

Half an hour later, a bandage taped to her right flank under her skirts and her hand firmly clasped in Trip's, Hoshi felt that it was her turn for a little teasing. "'NX-01', huh?"

He nodded. "Consider it a badge of honor. A lot of the MACOs I know have inked their first locations of deployment. Besides, I never want to forget the ol' hunk of metal and bolts that led me to you."

Struck by his devotion for her, Hoshi drew him to her by the lapels of his ridiculous Hawaiian shirt and kissed him firmly. Releasing him moments later, she whispered, "If you follow me back to the hotel, I'll show you why you'll never have to wander again."

And as the sun sets over the tropical island, bathing the landscape in russets and golds, he is only too willing to let her guide him into eternity.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Oh, you say that you want some exposition? Doesn't matter, I'm giving it to you anyways. This places some of my youngest OCs in context with this AU timeline and just briefly dusts over their personalities as a whole. Don't worry, there's more to come from each of them, but first...what exactly are the adults up to while their kids are out on the town?

Serena and Henry are BonesBird's. I'm only borrowing, but it may be helpful if you're familiar with her body of work.

Side note: I've just started type-casting the children, so that tells you how far behind I am with...well, everything, really. I'm thinking an extremely tame Charlotte Emma Aitchison for Merry and a young Schuyler Grant (yes, circa the first Green Gables) as Mattie.

**Intertwining Destinies: To Ring in the New Year, 2185**

**The One Where We Revisit the 602 Club, All Tucker Men Are the Same Eighty Percent of the Time, and Malcolm Ruins Matilda's Party**

Only hours before the New Year, 2185, two siblings trudged down the main thoroughfare of a San Francisco suburb, their elbows linked and their shoulders braced to the wind. The clouds hung low above the horizon, heavy with winter precipitation that had yet to fall. Few dared to brave the streets so shortly before such an important holiday, but not many were as motivated as they.

To those unfamiliar with the establishment in question, the bar appeared heavily shuttered and nearly deserted from the outside. Tipping the hood of her parka back, Erina Tucker greeted the persistent bouncer with a charming smile. Disarmed by her genial nature and exotic beauty, he stepped aside to allow her and her guest to enter.

Once inside the 602 Club, she nodded to Ruby, the effervescent barmaid, who didn't mind the underage children of old friends stopping by as long as they didn't partake. She spotted their assembled group instantly, nestled in the far corner of the dining area.

Truthfully, it was difficult not to notice when a young Vulcan woman stood by the booth in question, waving frantically and jumping up and down on her toes.

"Mattie, calm down!" she exclaimed, embracing her friend.

The translator fixed to her wrist began to whir and click as she signed over her shoulder.

_"Thank Surak that you're here. We were starting to think you wouldn't show up."_

"Were Alyssa and Merry annoying you?"

Travis Mayweather's daughter, eighteen that past month, glanced up from her personal PADD, "More like the other way around."

Akira, Erina's twin brother and partner in crime, decided to speak up. "You miss us that much?"

It had been two weeks since they had last convened for their evening get-together and three weeks since the Coalition Fleet Preparatory Academy of San Francisco had dismissed their students for winter break. Scoffing at her sister's fervor, the ever-stoic Merry Reed said, "Mother elected to take us back to Vulcan for a brief holiday. The reactions of the public were less than…enthusiastic."

Erina sighed and slipped into the booth opposite her. Meredith was the only one in attendance legally permitted to consume alcohol under United Earth law, but keen eyes could recognize that her neat cocktail was being passed around the table. When the beverage reached her fingers, she savored the sharp tang of cherries and hard liquor before passing it to her right. Coughing at the bitter taste that stung her throat, she replied, "Are they _ever_?"

Merry accepted her drink from Akira, who abstained as he often did. As she peered over the rim of the glass, she said, "Mother and Father are no longer the only high profile interspecies couple that the media is aware of. You would think people would get used to it after all of these years."

The Tuckers' eldest daughter was well aware that only a century ago, her parents' interracial marriage would have been met with disdain from all parties. Shrugging off the ignorant bigotry of their detractors, she slipped off her coat and draped it across her lap. Gesturing to the Reeds, she asked, "Are you guys not absolutely _freezing_?"

It was a legitimate question, as both girls had inherited their mother's finicky Vulcan constitution. Mattie smiled proudly and unzipped the collar on her iridescent silver blouse. Studying the intricate stitching and tiny wires that crisscrossed the fabric, she concluded, "A gift from Talla?"

The hybrid was at least six years older than anyone in attendance, but had kept in touch even after she left Earth to serve aboard the _Intrepid_, the Fleet's first ship captained by an Andorian. She and Jhamel were the civilian quartermasters aboard the vessel, and every few weeks some trinket or garment would arrive via express transport.

_"It's simple insulation technology which harnesses our own body heat and repurposes it, just a reverse of the technology that allowed the Andorians to infiltrate the Forge all those years ago."_

Akira, who had studied xenopolitical relations in depth, mumbled, "Some things just never change."

The group burst into easy laughter at that, and the boy flushed brilliantly red. Coming to her brother's rescue, Erina cut in, "So, are we celebrating today?"

"As a matter of fact, I think we are," Alyssa raised her glass of water in a mock salute. "Someone got a call from her publisher just this afternoon."

"You're kidding," she gaped, studying Merry's face for some sort of confirmation. The eldest Reed had skipped out on the Academy to attend a prestigious liberal arts college on the east coast. Every time she came to visit, she was a little more self-assured, a little more sophisticated, and a little worldlier. Most significantly, however, she had begun penning her first novel, a thrilling science fiction adventure. Nevertheless, her inspiration, it seemed, had been drawn from very _familiar_ sources…

"Ah, yes, the forbidden romance between the Welsh arms specialist Maddox Rooke and the Vulcan command advisor T'Para, set against the unpredictable and volatile background of unexplored pre-Federation space," Erina teased, gazing wistfully and mockingly into the distance.

"Hey!" Merry cried defensively, although the flash in her eye told a different tale. "Don't forget the intergalactic political drama as the _Endurance_ struggles to form an alliance with the species that was once their greatest rival—"

"—the Zuluban!" Alyssa and Erina cried in unison before bursting into unrepressed giggles.

Once the two had sobered up once again, she marveled, "I'm just surprised you're getting away with this. Wasn't the administration all up on you about revealing corporate secrets?"

_"It seems that Meredith received special permission from a certain former President Archer to adapt the story of the Enterprise, although some names and events have been changed to protect some more sensitive details,"_ Matilda cut a glance at her sister, who was struggling mightily to reign in her amusement. _"Although I have a feeling that father will be less than pleased when he discovers that she's riffed off of his adventures on the planet Risa."_

Both Erina and Akira snickered at that, as they were much used to the incident being brought up by their mother whenever their father committed any grievous wrongdoing, in addition to his former romantic escapades with one Kriosian princess in the early years of the mission.

"Hear me out! Instead of being robbed by two cross-dressing shapeshifters, Maddox and Chip Tracker are accidentally sold into the sexual slavery trade and forced to—"

"I worry about you sometimes," Alyssa tittered.

Mattie suddenly lurched forward, her translator bracelet stuttering as it registered the half formed signs as she once again waved her arms in the air. Glancing over her shoulder, Erina caught sight of a handsome cadet entering the bar, dressed to the nines in fleet blues and shaking wintry precipitation off his shoulders. After accepting the frothy mug of beer that had been waiting for him at the counter, he advanced towards his friends with a well-honed swagger that was very much prophetic of his age and immaturity. Several young women turned their heads to track his progress across the seating area, and he was only too pleased to acknowledge their attention with a grin or a wink.

Charlie Tucker was twenty-two years old and set to graduate from the Academy with honors the following spring. Save for the almond-shaped eyes and sharp Asiatic cheekbones, he was a spitting image of their father. Only he had inherited the sandy blond hair that was characteristic to so many of their Irish relatives. Erina, although seven years his junior, stood at eye level with Charlie and towered over Akira. Where she was poised and quick to assume, her eldest brother was all confidence and bravado. For their similarities, she tolerated him; for their differences, she adored him. Slipping out of the booth and careful not to upset his overflowing flask, she enveloped her kin in a bruising hug.

"Damn!" He whistled over the din of the group's salutations. "What's all this about? I told ya'll I'd be a little late because of the touch ups Dad and I are making to the—"

Erina rolled her eyes and elbowed him sharply as he joined them in the booth. "Have you forgotten who this party is for?"

He furrowed his brow in mock puzzlement. "Let's see, there's Merry's book getting a publication date…"

"My editors assure me that it's going to be a real hit, even if the subject matter wasn't exactly intellectually challenging to me." She hid her grin behind her clustered fingertips.

Charlie smirked before nodding in Alyssa's direction. "And someone's been accepted into the flight program at my soon-to-be alma mater for next fall."

"Like father, like daughter," she mused without a glance in his direction as she returned her attention to her PADD and all of the critically important social interactions she was missing out on for obligation.

"Don't I know all about that," he toasted an invisible companion to three successive generations of engineers in the Tucker family, two preeminent in that field and one just starting out.

Erina sighed in mock exasperation. "Are you sure there isn't anything _else_?"

"Oh, yeah," he tapped his chin in thought, his baby blues sparkling. "I heard through the grapevine that my punk sister and dork brother are turning sixteen in less than two weeks."

Akira cast his eyes down at his clenched fists, forever attempting to shy away from any attention hurled his way. The youngest member of their family was at least a full head shorter than either of his siblings and was not even half the spry, muscular specimen of youth that Charlie had been at his age. Erina had given up long ago on her half-hearted attempts to bolster her twin's self-esteem. If he preferred the company of his leather bound books and personal fantasies than to spending time with actual people, who was she to stop him? After all, her parents often spoke about how socially awkward Merry had been as a young girl, and she turned out perfectly fine.

Well, for the most part.

"And, of course, I'll be twenty-three the night before that."

_"Another year older, another year more arrogant,"_ Matilda teased, although the robotic twang to the UT made it sound anything but friendly.

"Can it, Reed," he retorted, sitting back and slinging his arm across her shoulder much to her chagrin. "Serena already celebrated her birthday last week. It's a pity she or Henry couldn't bother to make an appearance."

"I'm sure you'll get a chance to see your girlfriend when she returns from vacation," Alyssa provoked, hoping his reaction to being romantically connected to the oldest Archer wouldn't disappoint.

It never did. "She's not my girlfriend!" Charlie cried, although he was now blushing across his cheeks and up into his hairline.

"Whatever you say," his sister swiped his mug and took a long swig of the bitter beverage.

"You've been a pain in my ass since the day you were born," Charlie muttered, enjoying their good-natured banter as he always had. "My birthday party was ruined when mom went into labor."

"You were _seven,_" she replied, "Get over it."

_"Consider it a bit of serendipity,"_ Matilda said, _"What are the odds of three siblings nearly having the same date of birth?"_

Charlie hummed, low and rumbling in his throat, "You may think it's great, but our parents see it as an opportunity to shoehorn all three of our parties into one event."

Merry shook her head. "Stop complaining. You love them and you know it."

"I do," he acquiesced, "although I don't think anything could compare to Mattie's sweet sixteen last summer."

The group collectively groaned at the memory. The Reeds had gone to great lengths to cater to their youngest daughter's requests, organizing a small get-together at an exclusive restaurant uptown. Unbeknownst to anyone at the table, the appetizer that they had all been served contained negligible traces of pineapple extracts. What had begun as an enjoyable evening among friends ended with Malcolm Reed flailing about with urgency and all in attendance assisting to hold him down so his wife might administer his bromelain injection. Charlie keenly remembered having to tote his companion's unconscious father down three flights of stairs after the fact and loading him into the family's groundcar.

"He felt so bad about that," Alyssa had been sideswiped with a flying piece of glassware during the incident and had sported a scar on her forehead for several weeks afterward.

_"I lost count of how many times he apologized. Seems like his coming of age celebration ended with a similar incident."_

"We never did get the story behind that, but I suppose we will eventually." Merry tipped her head backwards, savoring the last few drops of her favorite alcoholic vice.

"Put that in your next novel," Akira snickered in a rare display of sociability.

Charlie stood abruptly, casting a conspiratorial glance at the eldest members of the group. "Well, since we are celebrating…"

Alyssa clambered out of the booth, sliding across several laps in the process. "Great minds think alike."

As she fought to get into her coat, Erina couldn't help but think that she'd missed something. "Where are we going?"

Merry grinned openly and clasped her hand in hers. "You know that great dance club that just opened next to the pier?"

"Well, I've heard that it's awesome, but most of us are underage and—" Most of their party had left the seating area and was well on their way to the door.

"Don't worry about that. What man in this town can resist two pretty girls like us, slaves to their impulses that they are?"

Erina was taken aback. "You aren't suggesting that we sneak—"

"Come on, Tucker. Live a little!" Sure enough, as she was dragged out into the frigid evening air, surrounded by the brash laughter of her peers, she was very reluctant to resist.

Somewhere in the distance, a clock tower struck nine.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: I was considering throwing out a few excuses for the wait, but does anything ever really go as planned? I went home to Germany for a few days. Add in high maintenance relatives and exorbitant flight delays and this is what you'll get. I sat down on an eleven hour international flight and realized just how long this story arc is going to be, so I'm splitting the ensemble piece. This is part two of three.

Be forewarned: this chapter contains elevated sexual content, but not much more than you'd see in your average PG-13 rated movie. Frakme and I have been talking for ages about riffing off of one of the most famous love scenes in cinematic history, so you'll get brownie points if you're able to guess the film I'm spoofing. I was a little hesitant at first-after all, bad foreplay and/or nookie in fanfiction is known to cause a myriad of minor illnesses and is a major catalyst for global warming and civil unrest-and I'm still not very confident, but the sooner I get it out there, the less I can fret about everyone's reactions.

I took out many of the descriptive actions in order to make it passable for this format, and in the process, may have rendered this chapter positively unbearable. Enjoy the crapfest, boys and girls.

**Intertwining Destinies: To Ring in the New Year, 2185**

**The One Where Merry Plays Matchmaker, Malcolm Rediscovers His Bedroom Chutzpah, and Phlox is the Life of the Party**

Elizabeth Cutler stumbled out of the bathroom of her apartment, a stiletto heel dangling from one hand. As she frantically pieced through her hair with her fingers, trying to achieve some semblance of effort put into her appearance, she staggered into the living area and in full view of her stepson.

Perched on the sunken couch with a spread of data PADDs and reference texts before him, Veran's appearance could only be described as placid. When he saw her wobble in, however, he treated her to a broad grin and there was no doubt that he was her husband's child.

The youngest son of Phlox and Feezal, Veran had chosen to begin his medical education at Starfleet Academy. The extremely clinical and driven young man had always been fascinated with humanity and was determined to secure a position on the Interspecies Medical Exchange as soon as he could. With his lineage and the family legacy to back up his extraordinary intelligence, Elizabeth had no doubts of his future success.

Dressed in the same manner as many of his Terran classmates and sporting a newly shorn buzz cut, Veran could have nearly passed for a human any day of the week, if it were not for his prominent cranial ridges and unnaturally bright eyes.

The sharp contrast between Liz and the rest of Phlox's extended family had long been a talking point for them; at first, she had been jealous of her husband's other wives due to her strictly traditional and monogamous upbringing. Then, she had wanted to bear him children. With the best physician this side of Jupiter Station on the case, the issue of their apparent infertility should have been solved expediently. Just when her hopes were at an all-time high, however, her aspiration to become a mother vanished in a single instant.

Phlox hadn't wanted to admit it at first, but she had eventually worn him down. The more tests that he ordered, the more time he spent reviewing her past charts and check-ups, the more he believed that she truly might be sterile. He was dreadfully sorry, he _still_ adored her, and it mattered not whether they could reproduce because from the beginning, even before they had eloped, hadn't they always said that their love was enough to secure them?

She had wept, clenching her fists and driving them into her eyes as she let forth great, ugly sobs. Phlox, having shed his persistent fear of casual touch long ago, spent an immeasurable amount of time holding her, comforting her, and continuing to be the voice of reason even when she felt that purpose had evaded her.

Eventually, her tears subsided, leaving the two in laden silence. Phlox, somewhat absentmindedly, had commented that they really had all the family they could ever want. Liz had laughed inattentively before realizing that this statement had the potential to reshape her life.

She had started out by contacting Feezal, who had been more than willing to discuss any matter large or small. As Liz's mother would say, the woman could talk the bark off of a tree. Through her, she had familiarized herself with the two eldest daughters of the family, who were quite successful medical professionals in their own right, and the more artistically minded brothers. Even Mettus and his mother Atara, Phlox's first wife, had reached out to her out of sheer curiosity.

She entertained their company several times at their uptown apartment and discovered, to her amusement, that many Denobulans seems to share the penchant for going off on a tangent when relaying a tale. Drinks had been served, friendships had been forged, and at long last the final barrier of resistance to Elizabeth's persistent affability had been eliminated.

Wemel, the eldest and most callous of the wives, had apparently either come to her senses or decided to wash her hands of the peculiar new brand of blended family. Veran had arrived on their doorstep in the early autumn and they had welcomed him as their own. She had offered to take his bags. When he thanked her, addressing her as mother and doling out a variation of the same enchanting smile that always made her melt, the seeds of maternal affection were borne.

However, she still had to maintain a position of authority.

Leaning across an armchair to steady herself, Elizabeth huffed, "We'll only be out for a few hours. In the meantime, the liquor cabinet stays closed, no one calls the police, and you stay out of trouble. Do you understand?"

The young man nodded solemnly. "You have my word."

"Good," tottering unsteadily in her sky-high heels, she made her way over to him and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Veran, true to his heritage, recoiled slightly, which only made her smirk.

Rubbing his scalp with an open hand, he fought to regain composure. Snorting indignantly, he says, "You look lovely, mother."

"That's what I'm hoping your father thinks," slinging her handbag over her arm, she darts into the kitchen in search of the man in question. "Speaking of which—"

"He's in the hallway waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Tucker. I don't believe I've ever seen him so excited for anything not related to his work."

Liz has to smile at that. She crosses the foyer and carefully opens the front door. "Phlox, honey? Why don't you come inside?"

Her husband was dressed in his usual ironed slacks and tunic as if he were about to head to his office; she searched within herself and found that there was no tactful way to tell him that such attire was inappropriate for a nightclub. It was true that the couple stood out wherever they went. Eventually, she had adopted that notion as one of the few constants in their universe.

"They'll be here any moment, I'm sure," he dismisses her request as he often does, affecting a dreamy look in his eye. "When was the last time we went out, Elizabeth?"

"It's been a while," she acquiesces. Turning one final time to wave, she seals the door and leaves Veran alone in the apartment. Accepting his outstretched hand, she nestles into his side and rests her head on his shoulder. Such moments of open intimacy were rare for them, but the woman knew that she cherished her beloved and that the sentiments were reciprocated.

Phlox has taken to tiptoeing around her in recent years, going out of his way to make sure that she is content and without reason to lament. It's one of the things she appreciates most about him, besides the fact that his genial nature and perpetual rotund figure reduced him to little more than a stellar cuddling partner in their downtime.

"I've been meaning to ask about the proper ways to conduct oneself in such a boisterous social situation for some time. From my prior involvements, I understand that these experiences are quite hedonistic in nature. Why, on Denobula—"

His reverie is interrupted by the arrival of Hoshi, who is quite out of breath as she comes to a halt before them. Seconds later, Trip reaches their destination, clapping her on the back and gasping for air.

Realizing that their friends are probably awaiting an explanation, the Japanese woman rights herself and says, "I told him that I'd beat him up here."

Hoshi Tucker has aged gracefully, with delicate laughter lines rimming her lips and a few spidery strands of gray twining their way through her hair. Her trim figure and the gentle sway of her hips as she walks belong to someone much younger. Tonight, she is dressed immaculately in a red sheath and matching pumps. As she leans back to catch her wind, Liz notices that décolletage is emphasized with a heavy jeweled pendant.

She's about to comment on their behavior, but Trip beats her to it. "You've gotta excuse us, it's not every day we get rid of the kids."

Cutler steps forward to wrap each of her friends in a hug and listens as Hoshi begins to softly babble to the assembled group. "Remember how we used to hit the clubs every weekend after we were decommissioned, Liz? Those were the days! The lights, the music, the men—"

Trip clears his throat and makes an indignant gesture. Patting his chest to placate her spouse, Hoshi continues, "I can't explain it! Just getting ready to go out makes me feel so _young_ again!"

"You are still quite youthful when compared to many species," Phlox reminds her.

She shakes her head. "If you had told me twenty years ago that I'd be teaching six courses a week, raising three children, and dealing with _this guy_ on a daily basis…" –she jerks her thumb in Trip's direction—"I would've laughed in your face."

"Tell me about it," the women link arms and begin to stroll down the hallway, their husbands falling into rank behind them.

After a few moments in companionable silence, Liz says, "Where are the Reeds? I would have expected them to come with us."

She can hear Trip scoff. "Definitely not. They're the two biggest homebodies in the galaxy, besides you two."

Hoshi rolls her eyes and leans in to whisper conspiratorially. "They've just gotten back from Vulcan and you know how Malcolm is when he travels. They probably let the kids go out and decided to stay home."

Elizabeth is skeptical. "Home, on New Year's Eve?" Even in the worst of times, she and Phlox had always at least attended one of the many events hosted by former shipmates on major holidays.

"Sounds terrible, right? Although, knowing Malcolm, he's probably got a surprise of his own in store for her."

As they reach the end of the corridor and enter the turbolift, she swears that Hoshi winks at her before rejoining their husbands in conversation.

-0-

The atmosphere in the club that night could best be described as electric. The frenetic bass rhythm pumped from overhead speakers and various colored lights danced across the floor. The arriving group of teenagers could hardly navigate for the dense masses of bodies that were concentrated around the bar and lounge area, but somehow they were able to climb their way up to the mezzanine.

Charlie ordered a round of drinks for himself and his friends, managing to circumvent the waitress' every request for their identification by flattery and mild coercion.

Merry shed her cardigan almost instantly, revealing a fitted chemise that exposed her midriff and accentuated her cleavage. Then, she pulled the length of her skirt to her waist and gathered it, perhaps displaying more thigh than was appropriate. The younger Tuckers gaped at this openly; they had never seen her in such promiscuous attire.

"A recent acquisition?" Erina noticed that even as he had to shout to be heard over the din her brother was stuttering with embarrassment.

She sat down once again, the glint in her eye utterly cunning. "Of course. What do you think I've been doing up in New England…_studying?"_

"Your father would absolutely kill you if he saw you dressed like that!" Charlie cried after thanking the waitress, who was keen to depart quickly.

"There's no doubt about that, but I wonder how yours would react if he hears that you've laid half of the Academy varsity volleyball team!"

That set him off, and the two began to quibble about his former romantic entanglements, which women he had slept with, and which he had just been associated with for a short period of time. As the two argued, Erina's regard drifted over to Matilda, who was leaned back in her seat with her eyes closed.

As her friend had grown, her audible range had diminished; now, she could not even hear the loudest of sounds. That did not stop her from appreciating her surroundings, however. Many a time, Erina had caught her in class or at the 602, honing all her focus on the detection of vibrations given off by the music. Now, with the beat thrashing all around and her hand clasped atop the grounded guardrail to her left, there was no doubt that she was enjoying herself just as much as anyone else.

Tapping her arm to get her attention, Erina began to speak. Mattie hurriedly cut her off, gesturing to the universal translator fixed to her wrist. Her sharp eyes noticed that its typically luminescent screen was dark.

Clearly, she would not be entertaining any interruptions tonight.

Abruptly, she stood and slipped around her sister, moving towards the staircase. Merry ceased her arguing with Charlie just in time to see her disappear into the crowd.

"She does this every time!" Charlie hollered as Alyssa and Meredith exchanged devious looks.

"All she wants to do is find somewhere private and sit alone," Erina was quick to come to the defense of her friend.

"You don't come to the hottest nightclub in the city to _sit alone_," Travis Mayweather's daughter rummaged around in her purse for her personal PADD, and then handed it across the table.

While Merry hurriedly scrolled through her contacts and selected the correct one, she urged, "You know what to do."

-0-

Alone in his father's silent apartment, Veran was so fatigued from his studies that he found himself lapsing out of consciousness. The televised countdown was on softly in the background, and an overly enthusiastic host declared that there was now less than three hours before they'd be ringing in the New Year, 2185.

His PADD suddenly vibrated violently, nearly shaking itself onto the floor in the process. His reflexes sharp, he caught the device by its rim and entered the access code. As the main screen loaded, a message scrolled across the top, abbreviated and incredibly vague:

_We're all at the club. If you want it, come and get it._

_Merry_

Veran was taken aback by the somewhat vulgar wording of the invitation, but nonetheless, he stood, donned his overcoat, and slipped out of the apartment within the space of a few minutes. This would prove to be a once in a lifetime opportunity, he was sure of it, no matter the consequences.

Besides, within the constraints of the specific perimeters that she had lain out, he wouldn't be disobeying his mother in the slightest.

-0-

Malcolm Reed, sleepy with dramamine and jet lag, awoke face up in his bedroom and spent the better part of half an hour gazing at the ceiling trying to regain his senses.

He blamed his vertigo on his lack of travel; during his tenure aboard Enterprise, a jaunt from Earth out to Jupiter left him feeling energized. Now, spending a week on a planet with heavier gravity and two days in open space traveling to and fro wreaked havoc on his fragile vestibular system. It was pitiful, really. What happened to the man that could lead two away missions in one week without skipping a beat? Had he really spent almost twenty years behind a desk, allowing the new recruits to have all of the fun?

Eventually, he stood on unsteady legs and stretched his arms behind and above him. Catching his movement in a mirror above the armoire, he gave pause to examine his reflection.

He never thought himself to be of the vain sort, but as he grew older, Malcolm found that he was more secure about his appearance than he had ever been. Some of his colleagues had become obese or bald, losing their characteristic boyish features that had endeared them to the observant civilian public only a short decade ago.

He, however, maintained a full head of hair, although he was graying at the temples and the crown. The former armory officer was still fit, muscular in a manner than indicated years of exercise and conditioning. The genes and inherited traits of many successive generations of active Reed men had served him well. Even as he would reach fifty in only a few years, he looked and felt a decade younger.

The sound of quiet music streaming in from the living area interrupted his reverie, and he stepped into the hall and into a scene that he had not been privy to witness for quite some time.

T'Pol, although she was twice his age and nearing the milestone of one hundred, had very much retained her youthful appearance. Her figure had rounded out somewhat after the birth of their two children, but her eyes still shone and she still walked upright and with a purpose and _gods_, how it pained him to lay beside her in the evenings and realize that she would outlive him by half a century or more.

He expected the varying looks they received from the public to increase with every year; most men would envy him, but all would wonder how such a decrepit older gentleman managed to acquire such a beautiful young partner. After the death of his father and their twentieth anniversary, it had become easier to present a united front to the naysayers; nevertheless, his heart ached to imagine a world where he would not be there to care for his family.

Presently, T'Pol was seated Indian style on the floor, dressed in one of his discarded button-down shirts with a single candle resting before her. Several others were placed strategically about, affording the room a muted glow. Her need for meditation had diminished over time, but it was still an activity that required her immense concentration. Holding his breath and approaching her, he only placed a few steps before she turned her head to look at him.

Her eyelids heavily lidded with tranquil focus, she flexed her knees and laid them out flat before her. Malcolm moved quickly to acknowledge the unverbalized request, his legs on either side of her hips and arms about her torso. The proximity was soothing, she claimed, but he believed that his wife secretly enjoyed this position for other reasons.

After a few moments spent gazing into the wavering wick of the candle, T'Pol mutters, "You never succeed in sneaking up on me, beloved."

Placing an openmouthed kiss on her neck and causing her to squirm, he replies, "And if I were to succeed, as you say, you would lose the distinct pleasure of besting me every single time."

Perking up at several of those words and their possible uses out of context, she seizes his hands and intertwines their fingers before her. With all the subtlety of stun grenade she declares, "The children are out for the evening."

"Is that so?" His fingers are working up the length of her arms while she speaks, making small circles across the unblemished expanse of tanned skin.

"Yes. Merry sent a correspondence just a few moments ago—" she keens forward as he locates with his lips a particular sensitive spot behind one pointed ear.

"What did she say?" the Brit prompts, smiling into her hair. He is eternally subservient to her and apt to keep her satisfied in more facets of their life than one, but still takes inordinate pleasure in taking the lead once in a while.

"She and her sister—" She gasps and flushes into a brilliant olive blush when his ministrations reach her upper thighs.

"What are they doing?"

It's becoming difficult for her to remain coherent as she strains to spread her hips just a little bit more, hoping to call his attention to where she really wants him to touch her. "They're staying with the Tuckers for the evening."

His contented hum rumbles deep in his throat at this. This primal vocalization catalyzes her desire tenfold, and T'Pol sheds all remaining vestiges of willpower.

She kisses him with incredible hunger, and the healthy throb in the back of his head intensifies along with their mental connection. Malcolm has never possessed any kind of dormant telepathic abilities and only harnesses this untapped resource with great difficulty, but when locked in his wife's embrace and sensing her satisfaction as well as his own, he has little time to contemplate its source.

He stands with the intention of moving off of the hard wooden floor, but stops in his tracks as his wife wraps her powerful legs around his hips. As she lowers herself deliberately across his middle, he rebuffs this advance and lowers her to her feet.

T'Pol's look is of consternation and he quickly remedies this. As his fingers ghost across her buttocks and waist, he hisses in her ear, "We've got all night, love."

Her hands are everywhere immediately, tracing the prominent muscles in his strong back and working her way up and down his abdomen. When they reach his trousers, her intent abundantly clear, he's surprised to notice her biting her lip coyly with deliberation.

This pursuit is interrupted while his lips press into her cleavage, the newly introduced sensation making her pant audibly. Her digits tangle into his hair to encourage this, and he tentatively allows his touch to travel downward.

Predictably, it's her undoing. Straining against his hand, she only manages to murmur a request for continuance before she's lifted once more and carried a short distance to the couch.

Nestled between her thighs and clamped in a vicelike embrace, Malcolm is only too willing to proceed to drive all comprehensible thought from his wife's mind.

-0-

"Damn, this place is crowded!" Trip shouts, turning this way and that to make his way through the mass of gyrating bodies and reach his table.

Elizabeth accepts the drink she's handed, downing it in one gulp. At Hoshi's incredulous stare, she says, "What? Phlox is already having a great time!"

The Denobulan is only a few meters away, his arms held aloft as he sways with the music. It's true that he possesses little to no natural rhythm, and nearby partiers are beginning to notice. Her husband's infamous grin reaches record-breaking proportions as one of the younger residents of Starfleet Medical sidles up to him and commences to bust out a rather clumsy and ungainly jig with his stout docent.

Hoshi giggles and slides glass of water across the table to her friend. "You're just out of the habit. Remember to pace yourself."

"A few more of those and I'll be able to escape this funk, I guarantee it," Elizabeth eyes Trip, whose back is turned as he examines something in the distance in the obscurity of the alternating lights. Her hand slowly reaches toward his flask, which, if she knows a single thing about him, is filled to the brim with Andorian ale.

As she retrieves the decanter and struggles to remove its cap, Trip asks, "Hon, where did the kids say they were gonna be tonight?"

His wife is distracted, stirring her beverage with a cocktail straw. "Charlie told me that they're eating at the 602 Club, and then the twins are spending the night with the Mayweathers. Why?"

"That's funny, cuz I could have sworn I just saw—"

Elizabeth sputters and coughs at the sharp taste of the liquor, attracting their attention if only for a moment. Suddenly Hoshi jumps from her seat, jostling her elbow and causing the blue-colored liquid to spill onto her blouse.

"Hey!" she protests, watching her companion take several steps onto the dance floor. When she returns, she wears a queer mask of confusion.

"Trip, you're only imagining things. I thought that I saw the same thing, but…"

Liz is struggling to mop up the deluge with a napkin. Puzzled, she cuts in, "What are you two—"

Her husband is at her side in an instant to half-heartedly assist her in her task. "Erina and Akira are not yet of age, are they?"

Hoshi shakes her head furiously as her expression accrues irritation. "They're not even sixteen!"

"It is truly strange to think that the legal age to consume alcohol differs so drastically on different worlds. On Dralax, for example, youths imbibe frequently starting at their coming-of-age festival on the first day of—"

"Phlox!" The concerned mother seizes his arm and shakes it roughly. "Have you seen my children or not?"

"I do believe I have, at a considerable distance. Also, I noticed young Charlie—"

Hoshi repeats her eldest son's name, her anger poorly concealed. "I can't believe it!"

"Darlin', he's nearly twenty-two. If I had a dime for every time I went out at his age—"

"Why would he ever let his siblings come into a place like this? Akira's so painfully shy, and Erina—"

Phlox has clearly tired of being interrupted. "Socializing is an integral step to creating the well-balanced individual. It was a Human philosopher that said that, one Sigmund Freud. I fail to understand why you take issue to this."

"They lied to me, and God knows how much trouble I got myself into when I was their age because I didn't have the common sense to listen to my mother's advice!"

A realization strikes Elizabeth with a hurricane force. Without much warning, Hoshi finds herself caught by the wrist and being dragged away from the confrontation.

A few blocks away, eleven deep, reverberating bongs ring out into the frigid evening air.

_arc continued in upcoming chapter_


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Alright, here's the deal. I'm uploading from a friend's house, and her connection is spotty at best. My own internet has been down for the past several days due to my neighbors' insistence on laying the foundation down for a fence with no regard for what might be buried between our yards. One of the few things I love about non-native citizen of America is that that is literally the worst of my problems right now. Suburbia energizes the soul but kills the mind, man.

Finally, the arc that I never thought I would complete is finished! I drew heavily from my own experiences for this chapter. Who doesn't recall their first boyfriend and how awkward those first few meetings were? Honestly, I am also tired of being harassed on the street and in restaurants by men who cannot control themselves. There is also passing mention of the Harris family. Some people don't like that, so I figured they might deserve their own trigger warning. But, realistically, who reads a Malcolm-centric piece and _doesn't_ expect the Section to be brought up at least once?

**Intertwining Destinies: To Ring in the New Year, 2185**

**The One Where We Revisit the Spunky!Merry Trope, Mattie Takes the Initiative, and T'Pol Stakes Her Claim**

Together, Hoshi and Elizabeth exit the building and come to a halt in the negligible space between the two establishments. They're silent for a few moments as they catch wind and Liz examines the scope of the damage done to her expensive silken blouse. The fabric is irreparably stained. Jerking at the buttons with frustration, she rips it off and drapes it over her arm. Now undressed to the camisole with gooseflesh dimpling her arms, she sets to chastisement.

"Hoshi, I may not have much experience with such delicate matters, but I can tell you just as surely as Trip is going to be hammered by the end of the evening that there is no need to be as angry as you are."

"That's easy for you to say. _Your_ kid isn't the one running all over town with no regard for his safety or that of anyone else!" Hoshi catches this insensitive malapropism almost as soon as it escapes her lips.

Liz shakes her head regretfully, her lips closed tightly in a smile that can best be described as bittersweet. "You're right. I don't have any children of my own, and not a day goes by that I wish I did."

The Japanese woman is quiet for a moment as she contemplates what to say next so as to avoid a greater verbal misstep. Placing a hand on her pal's waist and drawing her to her shoulder in friendly propinquity, she mumbles, "Those first few days were hard on you."

No level of exaggeration or understatement could overshadow this fact. She shrugs, saying, "Sure it was, but it's not about me. Things go unplanned all the time, Hoshi. Even if I can't be a mother…" she trails off suddenly.

"…and even if I can't make sure that my children act a certain way…"

She nods, pleased as ever with her perceptiveness. "We learn and adapt."

The two pass a few minutes in companionable silence, listening to the faint throb of automated music from indoors and the bustle of the city only meters away. The frigid air traversing the alleyway between the two buildings has created a wind tunnel of sorts, and they can no longer control their shivers.

"That's a metaphor that your husband would approve of," Hoshi says slyly, "but we should probably head back inside before our gentlemen find other means of entertainment."

She scoffs and swats at her arm playfully. "Bite your tongue!"

As Hoshi opens the fire exit just a crack, steam and smoke billow out from the narrow opening. She examines the interior of the club for a moment, and then says somewhat gravely, "They get a hall pass, just this once. But if this happens again…"

"Ah, can it, Tucker. No one can take you seriously when you pull the serious card, least of all me."

She considers this. "I was quite the party girl back in the day, wasn't I?"

Liz mumbles her agreement. "At your bachelorette party, you drank both me and Jhamel under the table."

"Well, even if our favorite Andorian isn't present, I'm sure we can find a worthy substitute."

"You aren't seriously considering trying that again, are you?"

Her friend doesn't reply, only squares her shoulders and charges into the building as if she's on a mission.

-0-

He finds her in the shadow of one of the mezzanine's awnings, eyes closed and features relaxed. After encountering Merry by the entrance and being pointed- or rather pushed-in the right direction, Veran was feeling veritably unsure on the prospect of wooing a girl that he had only heard about in rumor.

He's got to bust out some fancy footwork to avoid unnecessary contact with anyone on the way in. It's not the first time he considers his father's reassurance that despite the cultural taboos existing against it on their home world, casual touch could be comforting as well as pleasurable.

The latter causes him to blush. Surely there was another way to attract her attention.

Veran bobs on the balls of two feet and waves his arms before her line of vision, dismayed when there is no reaction. He's just about to locate a stray object with which to nudge her when she opens her eyes and gives him a disarming smile.

The young man watches as she adjusts the device attached to her wrist, perhaps adjusting the volume translation. In the meantime, he allows his regard to stray elsewhere.

She's wearing an iridescent silver blouse and high-waisted trousers, flamboyant in a way that a Denobulan woman would never dress. Her forehead is perfectly smooth, a quality that ambiguously fascinates him, and her hair is a mass of immaculate black curls. By all aesthetic standards, she is quite beautiful.

Just as he's examining her from an empirical point of view, he can feel her eyes roving his body in a purely appraising manner. This both thrills and bewilders Veran. It was a scientifically known that women and girls of his species were the aggressors in matters personal and private, so there's something endearingly familiar about the way she studies him.

"_I apologize, I was enjoying the music and didn't notice you."_ The translation matrix is engineered to sound as natural and conducive to conversation as possible; nevertheless, the vocal track is vaguely tinny and mechanical. He can't help but wonder what her voice actually sounds like.

"Matilda Reed!" It's more of an exclamation than anything. Even after all of his time spent around humans, he suddenly finds himself relying on nervous energy.

She appears confused and a little unsettled. _"How do you—"_

"Your sister sent me a message and asked me to come down. I wasn't sure about it at first, I don't want to bother you, but I've heard you're brilliant and a fantastic conversational partner and I understand if you don't want to, but I'd like to socialize."

Veran is distinctly cognizant of his rambling. Her eyebrows knit together as she struggles to follow his lips. This only causes him to speak faster.

"With you! Socialize…_with you!_ I'll go first. There's not much to me, really. I'm Veran, son of Feezal and Phlox, a first year at Starfleet Medical, my father is the chairman of the genetic recombination and experimentation department and the inaugural chapter of the Interspecies Medical Exchange, and well, I'm…" he starts to indicate his forehead ridges, but is startled when she grasps his hands.

Her touch is warm and vaguely electric and stops him mid-rant. As soon as she is sure she's captured his attention, she drops his palms and signs, _"I understand. My sister has overstepped her bounds once again, but now that you're here, we might as well make use of our time."_

He swears that the translation picks up on the flirtatious nature of the comment, undulating in pitch as she leads him out of the club.

-0-

"I'm not sure I understand, Matilda." A good half hour has passed, and the two are sitting at the base of the fire escape.

_"For the last time, I wanted to head out to a place where you could hear me without the volume settings having a fit. Also, I thought I told you to call me Mattie."_

"Alright…Mattie," he acknowledges with some difficulty.

_"Thank you…Veran,"_ her sardonic tone is gentle yet unmistakable. _"Now, what were you about to ask?"_

"If you've failed every flight test you've ever taken and still get sick on trans-galaxy transports, why are you on the pre-Academy track at the secondary level?"

_"That's a little difficult to explain."_ The two had spent a considerable amount of time discussing their studies and families before finally making it around to the topic of their personal aspirations for the future. _"You see, I grew up hearing all these stories about space travel and the Enterprise and the Columbia and the Excalibur…the universe is constantly expanding, after all. Who says that there's not more out there to discover?"_

Veran nods at this. "With your mother as a mentor, there's no way you could possibly do less than stellar on your entrance exams."

_"Thanks for the vote of confidence."_

"I'm serious! She's one of the most gifted science officers in the history of the fleet! I know so very many graduate students that can nearly quote her introductory papers on dark matter and microsingularities from beginning to end."

_"So it's not a question as to where I've inherited my supposed intelligence,"_ Mattie laughs, a short bark of amusement, before clapping her hand over her mouth.

After a moment of stunned silence, she says, _"I'm sorry. I don't think I've done that since…since…"_

"It's alright," he reassures her, "It was actually kind of…adorable."

_"Adorable?"_ Her nose wrinkles. _"Back in elementary and even middle school, kids would tease me mercilessly for how stilted my speech sounded."_

Veran is taken aback by the injustice of it all. "They're simply cruel. Besides, they're not the ones being offered top fellowships in both command and sciences after graduation."

_"Don't give me a big head, because that would be the least of my problems,"_ she pauses, _"Earlier you mentioned some graduate students. If you don't mind me asking…exactly how old are you?"_

It's his turn to burst into ungraceful laughter. "Oh, don't worry, Mattie, I'm only twenty-five."

She looks simply horrified, which only makes him cackle harder.

"Oh, my heavens! No, it's not like that! My life…my life span is nearly one hundred and sixty. So, I'm the physical equivalent of a…"

After a few moments of hasty mental calculations, he concludes, "I suppose I'm around seventeen or eighteen."

You could have knocked her over with a feather in that moment, but soon Matilda chortles with relief and claps a hand on his shoulder to push him away playfully.

She realizes her misstep before he can comprehend that this is their second instance of physical contact within the hour. _"My bad! I keep forgetting that Denobulans don't like to be touched!"_

His composure returns more quickly than it had before. "Perhaps most do. But I like to consider myself more of a modern man."

_"Sure you do,"_ she teases, crossing her arms.

"Typically we express affection…well…like this." He leans into her on an impulse, closing his eyes and gently nuzzling her cheek.

_"Butterfly kisses,"_ Mattie considers, _"but I often prefer the traditions of the humans."_

His heart nearly skips a beat when their lips touch. It couldn't have lasted much more than five seconds, but manages to fluster him for the next few eternal moments.

Veran isn't sure what the desired reaction should be. Should he compliment her lip locking skills? Slap her? Burst into song?

He decides on his perpetual fallback, false clinical detachment. "Although I have nearly no basis for comparison, I find the latter practice much more promising."

Although not entirely sure what she might have been expecting, Veran is anything but surprised when her head falls back and she begins to giggle, her mirth diffusing into the frigid evening air.

-0-

A spit-and-polished uniformed lieutenant leaned over the side of the bar, intently studying his next target. Sure, she appeared to be otherwise engaged and he might have been more than a little intoxicated, but in his mind her open body posture and revealing attire were invitation enough. Tipping his head back to down the last of his beverage, he shook himself and prepared to approach.

The woman in question was nestled into a plush couch some distance from the dance floor, nursing a fruity cocktail and flanked by several eager-looking cadets all vying for her attention. Merry entertained their harmless inquiries about her cosmopolitan lifestyle with aplomb; although her mother had counseled her children in the art of humble conversation, she enjoyed their devotion, and knew that when she decided to take to the floor later in the evening, there would be a line of eligible gentlemen awaiting her.

"I can't believe that you're going to be published by the time you're twenty," the youngest Rostov marveled, his chin rested in his palm. "It's really a brilliant accomplishment."

"Ivan, you're a year behind me and you've _still_ got several job offers lined up," Charlie chided his fellow engineering student from his defensive position on the arm of the sofa. Ever since Meredith had reached what many considered the age of eligibility, he had become more protective of her than ever before, fielding out potential suitors and making sure that the young woman knew how to do so on her own. He had already made several weighty mistakes in his personal endeavors at his tender age, and would give just about anything to ensure that his friend's virtue was preserved for as long as earthly possible.

He waved his hand dismissively at him, and then returned to gazing at Merry, his eyes wide and lips slightly parted. It was disgusting. He was practically _mooning._

Charlie stood and made a move to claim a place on the couch, but was cut off by another man coming between them.

"Hello there, Miss," he bowed shallowly, stumbled, and then righted himself. This immediately raised several red flags in his mind.

"Hello, yourself," Merry replied a little warily, self-consciously reaching for her pocketbook that rested on the table before her.

He seized her hand instantly and drew it up to his lips, causing her to recoil minutely. Without much of a second thought, Charlie pushed Ivan out of the way and sat beside his friend, perhaps a little closer than was necessary.

"I couldn't help but notice that you're the best-looking woman at this club tonight," he began as if rehearsing from a horribly clichéd speech, his words noticeably slurred.

Merry chuckled and struggled mightily not to make eye contact with the overly familiar stranger. Finally, she muttered, "Thank you."

"Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Matthew Harris, Lieutenant Second Class, SOLCOM Special Operations and Logistics Specialist. I don't believe I've seen you around campus, Miss…?"

"Reed, Meredith Reed," she responded before Charlie could deflect the request.

"Reed?" Matthew roars, slamming his drink down onto the table. It sloshes above the rim of the glass, causing everyone within a three foot radius to stiffen.

"Well, I'll be damned! Assuming you're Malcolm Reed's girl, and you've got to be, you're a spitting image…" he edges closer and reaches out. Charlie wraps a protective arm around her shoulders. "Did you know that our fathers were friends? Well, not exactly_ friends._ More like…business partners."

The eldest Tucker furrows his brow. "What did you say your name was again?" The moniker was vaguely familiar, reminiscent of something that his parents would have discussed behind closed doors.

He ignores the question. "He always wondered what had happened to his pride and joy, his _protégée,_ if you will. I guess he found some good for himself." Matthew makes contact at last after navigating around an affected sense of depth perception, tracing delicate rim of one seashell-pointed ear.

Charlie smacks his hand away and stands abruptly. "Don't touch her."

"Hey, man! I don't want any trouble!" Matthew exclaims, looking for support among the assembled group of men. Predictably, none comes.

"Really? Because the way you came over here and laid your hands on a girl without her consent, it sure as hell sounds like you do." Charlie rolls up the sleeves on his uniform in order to maintain an air of intimidation if nothing else.

The drunkard's demeanor changes in that instant. Perhaps he was struck by an unfortunate streak of poor logic, but at that moment he set his mind on whooping this nameless son of a bitch into the next millennium.

"Charlie!" Merry seizes his arm and attempts to drag him back down into the cushions. "You don't need to protect me."

"Oh, it speaks!" Harris taunts, and his opponent lunges for him.

In the blink of an eye, he staggers backwards and Merry cries out, putting herself in between the two feuding men.

She's quickly losing her composure, but determined to not allow either of them to feed off of her querulous energy. Mustering up her remaining conviction, she says confidently, "Leave us alone!"

"Well, damn!" The challenger holds up his palm and shoots her an antagonistic look. "I'll leave, but it's not like it's worth it, some bastard half-breed like you."

Merry takes a step forward and the pitch of her voice jumps a complete octave. _"Excuse me?"_

His grin is sickening and dripping with malevolent vitriol as he recognizes that he's struck a touchy subject. "I'm sure you already know that every time your pop goes home and mounts that Vulcan whore he calls a wife, he's completely aware of the disservice he's doing the human race."

She returns his facial expression, her eyes glassy with contemplation. As Merry steps around the coffee table to stand next to him, he decides to go for the gusto.

"Terra Prime may not exist anymore, but rest assured that there are still some people that think like they do. You and your sister deserve nothing but the bottomless pit of filth and degeneration you've dug for yourselves. You're _nothing,_ and one of these days—"

Merry launches herself at him in that instant, connecting a solid right hook to his jaw. He staggers into the wall and she follows him, clenching his arms above his head with superior strength that genetics had dealt her and she had never found a reason to use before the fact.

"Let me tell you something," she begins sweetly, her knee coming up to keep his hips in place. Harris struggles weakly, but in his inebriated state can't get very far.

Behind her, she hears Alyssa and Erina, who most likely witnessed the physical confrontation from afar, babbling loudly and trying to attract her attention. Various partygoers scattered about the club have also found this a worthy distraction, some hooting and hollering for a fight and others even placing short-lived bets on the potential victors of the argument. Merry doesn't waver, only tightening her grip on his wrists.

"There's no one on this world or the next that gets away with talking about my family like that, do you understand?" Harris appears defiant, so she digs her fingernails into his flesh. "I don't even care if you're completely sloshed, you ignorant piece of horse shit, if I ever hear even a bit of drivel coming from your mouth again…"

Someone grasps her shoulder, and she shakes it off, roughly. Behind her, Akira's voice has reached fever pitch. "Merry, my parents are here!"

Her stomach drops at the thought of being caught in the act, but she wants to make sure she's set the perpetrator straight before they make their escape. Releasing him for a moment, she connects a solid blow to Matthew's abdomen.

He groans and doubles over. Merry collects her personal effects and links her arm through Charlie's, set on making a graceful exit. All hopes of that are dashed, however, when she hears her name being called out from a distance. It could have been an old friend, or even Matilda looking for her, but she's not willing to risk it.

Making their way out of the fire door and into the alleyway, she spots her sister wrapped in the embrace of a rather familiar-looking Denobulan. The couple separate almost immediately, but Merry's quick eyes and superior powers of deduction are inescapable.

"Wrap it up, lovebirds, we're heading out!"

Veran starts to sputter, struggling to find a logical explanation for his presence and coming up short. She jabs at his chest coyly. "Yes, you as well. Unless you're particularly keen on being caught out of the apartment after curfew…?"

That motivates them to move, but even Alyssa notices that he rests his hand on the small of her back as they navigate out of the alley and onto the sidewalk.

"Where are we going? There's only…" Akira struggles to keep up with his friends' frantic pace.

"Minutes until midnight," Charlie begins to whistle, his boots sharply clicking the pavement with every step. It's silent among the group for quite some time until Mattie confirms her sister's suspicions.

"_Veran told me about the message. You're not particularly adept at subtlety."_

She scoffs. "Did you think I invited him here for tea and crumpets? I knew you two would hit it off. Call it woman's intuition."

"I've read that there is considerable viability to the theory of matchmaking and the concept of an algorithm that pairs individuals based on shared interests, while lacking in functionality, holds some merit—"

"Like father, like son," Alyssa cuts in wryly for the second time that evening, "but what do you guys say about going back to the 602? After all, the night is still young."

"It's probably packed," Charlie, making good use of his position at the head of the group, steers them in the direction of the park. "Besides, in the company of our resident bad ass…" he elbows Merry, who only rolls her eyes, "we'd most likely start a bar fight."

After brushing the snow off of a few park benches and huddling together to stay warm, the assembled teenagers trained their eyes onto the horizon, where the great clock mounted atop the academy chapel approaches the designated time.

Mattie, acutely aware of Veran's closeness and his arm wrapped about her waist, sighs contentedly. High above them a bit of cloud cover has lifted, exposing the freezing ground below to the faint glimmer of stars spanning across the heavens. She recalls an antiquated phrase at that instant, often quoted, but not typically applied in proper context.

Freeing her hands from the constraints of woolen mittens, she holds her fingers aloft as she carefully signs, _"Ad astra, per aspera."_

-0-

"You should really be more careful," Malcolm chides, leaning as far as he can in his seat in order to see his wife.

T'Pol, to her credit, ignores him and continues to wet the washcloth in the basin. In the afterglow of their latest romantic encounter, between all of the soft words and gentle caresses, they had become aware that something was very, very wrong.

"The last thing I would have expected tonight is to be assaulted," in his hand, he twirls an empty hypospray somewhat haphazardly. Without the proper context, it could seem that her beloved was a bit miffed. The subtle nuances of teasing were not lost on the Vulcan woman, however.

Gingerly, as one must do with anyone under the influence of powerful anti-nausea medications, she sets the cylinder aside. Malcolm has wrapped himself in a thick, downy blanket to where only the tip of his nose and his swollen lips are visible. Really, she thinks, men are not unlike children when they are ill.

He doesn't fight when she pulls the throw away, exposing a half-moon shaped bite mark resting in the crook of his neck. Dabbing a little bit of antiseptic on the wound and ignoring his look of consternation, she says, "Let the record state that I was provoked before the incident itself occurred—"

He makes an indignant noise, holding his pointer finger before him and observing as his vision drifts in and out of focus. No matter how intent he was on engaging in some good old-fashioned cuddling, T'Pol had insisted on administering his injection at the proper time that evening. For the first time in a handful of years, he had found himself cursing her eternal promptness and expediency. All the same, he was not willing to let the matter drop. "Provocation had nothing to do with it!"

She doesn't reply, only raises an eyebrow in disbelief. After returning the damp cloth to the sink, she takes her place across from him in the armchair and tosses him a challenging look. Like an exotic housecat perched above her domestic, she arranges the panels of her robe across her knees and sets her hands in her lap.

"Oh, no!" Malcolm protests loopily, patting the couch cushion beside him. "Not tonight, of all nights!" He gestures to the transmission screen in the corner, where a local newsman excitedly proclaims the upcoming festivities.

"You wish for me to join you and observe the fireworks?" Feigning aloofness, she studies her fingernails.

"I do."

"And you are, as they say, _putting your foot down_ on the matter?"

"I am, because if I want to watch—"

As she crosses the room in a single stride and delivers a searing kiss, Malcolm's faux irritation disintegrates in an instant. He doesn't bother to fight the fluttering sensation settling in his gut. Heaven knew how much time he had wasted by denying how he truly felt.

When they break for air, Malcolm deftly rolls his wife lengthwise and spoons against her back. On the screen, a significant portion of the population of San Francisco has gathered to join the emcee in counting down the final seconds of 2184.

Reverently, he traces his fingers along her stomach and up to her sternum, feeling the repeated inflation of her lungs as she catches her breath. An unbidden smile conquers his lips as years of solitude and embittered determination dash across his mind, followed by the thought that he might never have to endure that again.

"Six…five…four…three…two…one…"

Raising himself carefully onto an elbow, he presses a kiss to one elevated cheekbone. "Happy New Year, my love."


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: You knew this was going to happen eventually. This is another three parter, set in 2191, because if we waited each time for me to complete things in full, we'd all be screwed. Everyone seemed pretty receptive to the idea of Veran and Mattie together, so I'm going all in. (What should we even call that? Mattiran? Vertilda?)

**Intertwining Destinies: A Night to Remember, Part One**

**The One Where the Disaster Twins Get Back in the Game, Veran Owns Up, and Merry Investigates**

The invitations were printed onto expensive manila stock and read, "You are cordially invited to the Thirtieth Anniversary Gala to celebrate the eponymous decommissioning of the NX-01, hosted by President Jonathan Archer." No less than three hundred copies had been sent out to all corners of the quadrant in an attempt to bring the surviving members of the original crew and their progeny together for one evening. Now, the appointed date had arrived, and many a domicile across greater San Francisco was a flurry of activity.

"Beloved, this is foolish," T'Pol called out from before the full length mirror in their bedroom, where she surreptitiously modeled a set of formal robes that she hadn't worn for quite some time.

"You don't need to tell me twice, darling, but if Mr. Tucker is determined on trying to show me up at the gala tonight…" He emerges from the closet, his voice strained from exertion as he struggles to close the final zipper on his old dress blues.

She's silent for a moment, examining how the fabric warps and whiskers across his broad chest. "You've gained a considerable amount of muscle mass since the last time you donned that garment. It would be illogical to—"

"Logic be hanged, just this once," he moved to encircle her waist with his arms. "If the girls are coming into town, I want to follow through with this wager and embarrass them as much as possible."

She turns and buries her forehead into the crook of his neck. How typical of her; all business, short resolve. "Should you be determined to mortify them as if they were still teenagers, I dearly hope that you will not go too far. Merry might tolerate it, but Mattie is still vying for that promotion to alpha shift."

He disengages from her, throwing his hands in the air. "Is she honestly complaining about having to work in the evening? All of the new recruits are spoiled. Back on the _Enterprise_—you remember—we'd often have to take on double shifts, or even—"

"Malcolm," she cut his rant short. "If you don't want to miss our former commanding officer's opening toast, I would suggest that we leave right now."

The Brit shrugs expressively and begins to gather his personal affects. "It's times like this that I remember why I married you."

She follows him from the bedroom. "Your father often implied that your motivation was purely physical."

"It's been almost thirty years, and the initial appeal hasn't worn off." He whistles appreciatively. "Pretty impressive if you ask me."

T'Pol knows that he is teasing her, so she decides to play along. "I find that I concur with his analysis. Any emotional appeal is negligible." As the two enter the hallway, she offers the _ozh'esta_, which he gratefully accepts.

Savoring the tingling sensation that climbs his forearm and settles in the back of his throat, it's some time before Malcolm replies. "If only father could see me now."

Taking in his sly grin and the way he puffs out his chest mischievously, the Vulcan doesn't give a second thought to the matter as she unceremoniously pushes her husband into the turbolift with an open hand.

-0-

Meredith Reed, dressed to the nines in a chiffon evening gown, stood out categorically among the uniformed crowd milling about in the lobby of the transporter station. The original plan had been for her sister to meet her at her hotel room so that they may prepare for the event together, but that had been dashed when the young woman had realized that it had really been a year and a half since she had seen her sister apart from the odd deep space transmission, and she would be damned if the two days leave that Mattie had been dealt would go by fundamentally wasted.

She, herself, was in San Francisco on borrowed time. Her novel franchise had taken off in the past few years, making her just short of a mogul and quite well known among the public as the author of dozens of riveting science fiction tales centered on the exploration of pre-Federation space. What most didn't know was that she drew heavily from stories she had heard as a child, appropriating her parents' yarns of misadventures aboard the_ Enterprise_ into an easily exaggerated and accessible format. It wasn't challenging, it barely tested her ingenuity, but becoming a millionaire at the tender age of twenty-six hadn't exactly been bad.

Suddenly she spotted her sister, exiting a shuttlepod with a familiar Denobulan on her arm. Ensign Matilda Reed, pips shining and hair swept back into a severe ponytail, was the beta shift science officer for the first warp eight ship in the fleet, the USS _Berlin_. It was atypical for someone of her age and stature to hold such a prominent position, but in the bureaucratic boom of development post-charter, the Federation had reached deep into shallow pockets and risked promoting several promising young officers with impressive scores on their field exams.

Of course, the fact that the current president was an old family friend probably didn't hinder her at all.

"_Merry!"_ She squealed, hoisting her duffle bag over her shoulder and shuffling through the thickening crowd to wrap her sister in a crushing embrace.

Over her shoulder, she saw Veran approach from a distance, carefully balancing the remainder of their possessions. Mattie's boyfriend was the resident physician aboard the _Berlin_, an appointment well deserved. He served under the honorable Doctor Lucas, a close professional companion of his father. From her sibling's letters, she could only infer that their six year courtship only intensified once they were out from under the watchful eyes of their respective families.

All Meredith could do was hope that they wouldn't commit to something they'd later regret.

"Still making your partner do all the work, I see," she remarked once Veran had joined them.

"_Why not? He's got to earn his keep."_ Mattie replied nonchalantly. She accepted another suitcase, adding weight to her already punishing load.

"Keep that up and I might just send you back to your own quarters," Veran dipped in to nuzzle her cheek, lingering for a bit longer than was necessary.

At Merry's bewildered expression, Matilda said, _"My roommate is the alpha shift prep cook. She just hits her REM cycle as I'm drifting off. Snores like a freight train."_

This was a perfectly sound explanation, but Merry was even more shocked that their relationship had progressed to the level where they were sharing a bed. The pragmatic part of her mind argued that this was purely a logistical arrangement, but the realistic portion knew the truth.

She supposed that she really should have seen this coming. Hadn't she been the very same liberated, hormone driven, hyper sexualized prototype of a woman when she was twenty-three?

Actually, she had not.

"I see," she finally countered coolly, linking arms with her sister. "Well, if you don't mind—"

"I don't," Veran was quick, as usual, to assuage her concerns. "You two can catch up and I'll meet you at the party. I've planned a visit with my parents, and it's long overdue."

Merry thought that she glimpsed a hint of confliction dart across his features, but didn't put very much thought into it. They said their goodbyes and disappeared into the crowd.

A few minutes later and only a handful of blocks away from her hotel, she soon realized that something was amiss. Mattie was quiet, pale, and hobbled somewhat into each step. Searching through the laden silence for clues, Merry realized that she was also breathing extremely hard.

She slipped the handle of the valise from her sister's hands, ignoring the small sounds she made that indicated her consternation. "Are you feeling alright?"

"_Just fine. Trying to regain my land legs, you know?"_

The author, rummaging in her pocketbook for her card key after a tremendous bout of contemplation, isn't convinced. "What's in all this luggage, anyway? You guys are only staying for two days."

Mattie moved past her into the room and flopped down onto one of the twin beds, obviously fatigued. When she rolls into her direction, she's grinning wantonly, her dimples and accentuated cheekbones on display.

"_Cool it with the twenty questions. Have you seen mother and father?"_

She glances at the wall chronometer and realizes with a marked amount of dread that they didn't have as much time to prepare for the gala as she once believed. Absently, she begins to toy with the latch on one of the cases. "I flew in from Boston last night and had to listen to mother's stories about how a number of her colleagues have embraced the practice of practical jokes aimed towards the armory research and development team. I couldn't help but think that she might have been behind that. Honestly, you'd think they were—"

"Don't touch that!" Mattie shrieked without the use of her translator, her voice barely intelligible with haste. In the blink of an eye, she was up, shooing her away from her belongings in a manner that was nothing if not suspicious.

"_Sorry, all of this stuff is on loan,"_ she said once the perimeter was secure and Merry had retreated a safe distance from her.

"This…_stuff?"_

"_Yes,"_ she was now struggling for words, her signs becoming progressively languid and poorly formed. _"The luggage, that is. We've brought presents and surprises for everyone, from our latest stretch of shore leave."_ It wasn't exactly a lie.

Mattie turns and rummages around in one of the bags, producing an opaque garment bag moments later. She unzips the cover to reveal an emerald gown with sequined trimmings. Noticeably absent was any definition about the waist.

"Why didn't you send them ahead on transport?"

"_That's not important,"_ she answered curtly. Also true enough.

Meredith shrugs and feigns indifference. Gesturing towards the bathroom, she prompts, "You can change in there. I'll be along to help with your hair."

As her sister passes her, she doesn't seem to notice that a scanner is held discreetly at the waist and aimed in her direction.

A minute later, she calls out, her speech strained with emotion. "Mattie, what is this?"

-0-

Elizabeth Cutler, draped in a dressing gown and sporting a full head of old fashioned curlers, was running late once again. It seemed like a constant in her universe. Sol rises in the east, the grass is green, and she and Phlox can't keep an appointment to save their lives.

It seemed that she always got sidetracked, absorbed in her work or a little bit of personal reconnaissance, and the lateness of the hour inevitably struck her upside the head and sent her scrambling. Presently, her makeup was half applied and her gown was nowhere to be found, but that was the last thing on her mind as she heard her husband shouting from the kitchen.

Adrenaline kicks in. Dodging wayward furniture and misplaced knickknacks, she arrives in the foyer to find Phlox loudly and enthusiastically greeting their son, Veran.

"Mother!" He cries, pulling her into a friendly embrace. The young man is at least a full head taller than she, substantially thinner and more muscular than his father. His manner of dress and speech were drastically different than a majority of Denobulans his age—for lack of a better term, he had been Terranized.

After pleasantries and discourses in small talk have been exchanged, the newly reunited family gathers around the dining room table. Liz hobbles out of the room momentarily, returning and instructing her husband to secure the closure on her appropriated evening dress. He complies.

"Son, we're going to have the next two days to discuss trivial matters. Are you sure that there's nothing else on your mind?" Phlox is atypically cued into his offspring's mannerisms and indicative behaviors.

Elizabeth murmurs her agreement. "Haven't you heard that Feezal is making the trip from Krios Prime to attend the party?"

She knows that Veran hasn't seen his biological mother is nearly three years. This news should have enthused the young man, but instead he appeared stricken. His eyes dart everywhere but to the two people sitting across from him.

The elder Denobulan initiates another feeble attempt at conversation. "How is Matilda? I understand that she's been promoted."

His eyes are as wide as saucers, and he guiltily fiddles with his collar and sleeves. "She's…she's alright."

Liz decides to intervene, reaching across the table to grasp his hands. She knew that he rarely engaged in casual touch if not with his long time girlfriend, so it only served to capture his attention. "Are you sure that there's nothing else you want to run by us? You can tell us anything, Veran. We're here to listen."

With great difficulty and with a few tremendous failures to begin his inquiry dying in his throat, the young physician questioned, "How do you suppose I tell Admiral Reed that I've gotten his daughter pregnant?"


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Welcome to Trope City, featuring our second favorite canon Denobulan character in all of her liberated glory. Once Merry and her band of misfits regroup and formulate a way to help Vernie (thanks, Frakme) out of their current predicament, we'll have part three.

Side note...it now occurs to me how many of my devoted readers are stay at home mothers with children of their own. What could this possibly mean? (Respect, ladies. You are the foundation of our society.)

**Intertwining Destinies: A Night to Remember, Part Two**

**The One Where the Truth Comes Out, There's a Bit of Sisterly Bonding, and Feezal Gets It In**

"Oh my god," Elizabeth groaned, pitching back into her seat. "You have got to be kidding."

Phlox was, for once, silent.

Her son reacted defensively. "I know that you must be disappointed in me."

She took one look at his widened eyes and clenched fists, indicative of his fortuitous resolve, and decided that she could never be angry with the young man when he demonstrated such conviction to endure the consequences of his mistakes, however grievous. All the same, Cutler knew that she had to warn him of the things to come. "Veran, the truth is that there's no true way to prepare for the birth of a child. Have you even thought about how you're going to support Mattie and the baby? Where will you live? How will you—"

"Mother, please believe me. Starfleet will allow us to remain aboard the _Berlin_, I'm sure of it. Our salaries will be more than enough to cover our expenses. I even took the liberty of dipping into father's clinical notations from his assistance in creating the Reed children."

"Are you even sure that she'll be able to carry the child? She's always been sickly, Veran. She nearly _died_ because she was the result of an unplanned pregnancy! Meredith is another matter entirely, her conception had been prearranged months in advance. I don't want you to get your hopes up and then discover that you won't be able to—"

"Elizabeth!" Phlox exclaims. He had realized that her rant, which had continued with almost religious fervor, was becoming less about her stepson's arrangement than about psychological wounds from decades ago.

She's breathing heavily, covering her eyes as she fights to retain some manner of personal equilibrium. Veran, as if he had been prepared for this eventuality, slides his data PADD across the counter.

"As you can see, the heart of the fetus is beating steadily and strongly. It is too early to identify any definitive gender, but he or she should begin to kick any day now."

The couple absorbs this information in silence. Phlox, clearly delighted by his son's brilliance and initiative, accepts the device and scrolls through a few tables of values.

"By using basic methods of genetic recombination, I can predict a majority of the outcomes possible for the gestation. Some phenotypes should be expected because of their dominant nature. For example, I am fairly certain that your grandchild will be born with cranial ridges."

At that moment and without much in way of a warning, all emotional dams burst.

-0-

_"What is it now?"_ Mattie shouted from the bathroom, her voice tinged with annoyance.

"You…you're…"

Her sister was not typically a woman to stumble over her words, so this caused her heart to leap into her throat. There was an endless moment of unease, of frantic deliberation as she contemplated her next move, before Merry wrenched open the door.

"When were you planning on telling me about this?" She held up the discarded scanner that had been a gift from their mother. Scrolling across the screen, in looping Vulcan script, a schematic of her body in profile along with the faint vital signs for a two month old fetus had effectively sold her out. For the first time in her life, Matilda consciously damned the effectual technology of the century in which she lived.

She backed up a few steps and commenced to sign more quickly than she had ever before. _"Alright, let me start by saying that we didn't think it was even possible for me to—"_

"Did you never listen to all of those sex education classes we had to sit through in middle school? How could you be so irresponsible?!"

Mattie was suddenly and inexplicably angry with her sister for accosting her in such a manner. Did she not think that learning she would bear child at the tender age of twenty-three was equally traumatizing for her? What's more, she'd thought that Merry would have been excited about being an aunt!

_"That's brave talk from the international wine depository of greater New England!"_

She was indignant to have her drinking habits called out when clearly there were more significant issues afoot. "At least I know the proper steps to take in order to avoid an unplanned pregnancy!"

_"You're asexual!"_ Mattie was exasperated.

Her orientation had been up in the air for quite some time. She could enjoy the physical attributes of others objectively, but never felt the urge to forge a deeper connection or explore other sexualities. Only the previous winter had the author elected to abstain from intercourse in order to discover what she truly wanted from her life. "What's your point?"

Merry's communicator alerted her to an incoming call, emitting a distinctive klaxon that both sisters recognized. Glancing at the ringing device, she declared, "It's mother."

The ensign's voice was dangerously low, gravelly with threatening overtones. "Don't you dare."

"Who says I was going to tell her?" Her demeanor is challenging. Haughtily, she swings her hair over one shoulder and turns to walk back into the bedroom.

Mattie decides then that she can't risk it. With a strangled cry, she leapt forward and caught her by the waist. The two fell to the ground with a thud.

They kicked and pushed for the upper hand for a few moments before the communicator is tossed to the side and Merry succeeds in pinning the science officer down. Looking down at her sister, she realizes that they are both close to tears.

She sits up. "I'm sorry, Mattie, I just…"

_"It's okay,"_ she suddenly realizes that they are acting quite childish. _"We didn't want to tell anyone. Veran was so afraid that I might have a miscarriage, we were digging around in Phlox's old archives. He managed to combine human and Vulcan DNA, so why not human and Denobulan?"_

Merry shrugs, snuffling a bit into the sleeve of her gown. She eventually decides not to hide her tears. It would be grossly inappropriate.

_"It turns out that there's a better chance of me carrying this baby to full term. Our blood types are both largely iron based."_ Relief floods over her for a glorious instant and she wraps her into a crushing embrace.

When they separate, Mattie continues, "_We only wanted to let everyone know once I started showing. There's no chance of me losing my position because of the new child safety protocols that are in place for every starship, but I fear the confrontation most of all."_

She nods. If she had dreaded her own sister's reaction, she could only imagine how frightful the prospect of announcing her pregnancy to their father must be. It had been decades since his service in Section 31, but Malcolm Reed still fostered a reputation of being the most hot-blooded and capricious men in Starfleet.

They stand together, intermingling hands brushing off the fronts of each other's gowns. _"I told Veran that he shouldn't fret so much about me, but he insisted on making me bring a bunch of prenatal equipment,"_ she gestures to the wardrobe, _"that's what's in the suitcases."_

"He only worries because he loves you," The older woman reminds her softly, running a comb through her sister's thick locks. "Just the same as I do. Mattie, you're my sister, and no matter what happens with this pregnancy, I promise that I'll stick by you."

_"Thank you, Merry,"_ she doesn't turn, doesn't embrace her, only trails her palm across her own stomach. Now that she's been tipped off to what's going on, she notices a nearly imperceptible swell under her fingertips.

After a few moments of companionable silence, she realizes what is so comforting and familiar about this particular gesture. Vaguely, Merry recalls sitting before the mirror in her early teens, braiding her sister's hair and babbling endlessly about gossip and the boys they liked. They had been so young then, so impressionable and unaffected by the more substantial influences in the world. She almost wishes they could return to that vulnerable state, without pressing obligations or any responsibilities whatsoever. With a pang of regret, she acknowledges that they can never return to the way things were. Matilda and Meredith were truly a product of their circumstances, and the only option left for either of them was to charge boldly forward.

-0-

"This is ridiculous," Hoshi Tucker declared from over the lip of her brimming cocktail.

"This is the fourth time you have made this statement within the past thirty minutes. Although the frequency of the observation has no profound effect on its veritability, I must concur."

The two friends observed the interaction from the safety of the senior officers' dais. Trip and Malcolm were attempting to mingle with former colleagues even as they were restrained by the unforgiving fabric of their old dress blues. Most men had arrived wearing their current uniforms, keen to show off their elevated ranks, or else formal tuxedos. But their husbands had elected to engage in another increasingly ludicrous, definitively illogical wager. Some things just never changed.

"So let me get this straight. The first one to give in loses. What's the punishment this time?"

T'Pol watched their gentlemen as they approached, taking in their bowlegged gaits and pained expressions. "Unknown. Most likely it involves alcohol and subsequent acts of poor judgment."

Her companion snorts indignantly. "Well, my husband didn't bring a change of clothes."

"Neither did mine," their eyes met and they secretly relished the thrill of covert competition.

"Ladies," Trip grunted, sidestepping around his wife. He looked very much like a marionette cut loose from his strings.

Hoshi fought the urge to titter girlishly as she was subjected to an extremely detailed view of the benefits such a tight garment could afford. "Hon, you'd better watch your back tonight. I hear that Feezal will be in attendance."

He groaned. "I haven't seen her in years!"

"That's because you don't hang around Liz as often as I do. Her third marriage fell through some time ago, so I believe she may be on the prowl once again."

Malcolm appeared amused by this. He feared for his ability to breathe, so his attempt at a hearty laugh came out a little choked.

"No one is safe this evening," Hoshi said coyly, perpetuating her husband's discomfort. "With Starfleet's finest gathered in one place, Feezal is likely to have her pick from the crowd."

"Godspeed the romantic overtures of healthy Denobulan women," Malcolm raised an impromptu toast to no one in particular. "As for me, I think I'll stick with my tried and true preference."

Usually, T'Pol would have chastised him for such an overt display of flirtatiousness. This would have taken place if she hadn't been focused on the small group of people entering the ballroom at the time.

Their firstborn had swept into the foyer in a flurry of crimson chiffon, Charlie Tucker at her side. The two discoursed gaily, and every so often her head would fall back in raucous laughter. Behind them a few paces, their youngest daughter clutched onto her significant other's hand for dear life. Matilda was swathed in emerald silk, her eyes bright and features flushed. It was Veran who appeared troubled. The former armory officer didn't have to glance at his wife to know that she was unsettled by this. Her silence, her posture, her expression—something was amiss.

He never chalked up her premonitions to paranoia, but had little time to ponder this most recent development as President Jonathan Archer descended from the staircase into the crowd milling about the grand ballroom.

"I'd like to thank you all for coming," he began warmly, the amplification device clipped to his lapel crackling with static. "Thirty years ago this week, Enterprise returned to Earth after an extended tour of space to a world forever changed…"

Everyone in attendance listened to his speech, which thankfully made no mention of gazelles or any other stilted metaphor. This was unusual. _Perhaps his better half had the upper hand in its composition,_ Malcolm mused.

Sure enough, Erika Hernandez had taken her position at his side, elbowing him and prompting him at the proper times. No man was complete without his most loyal advisor at his side, least of all Jonathan.

Once his dialogue concluded, the assemblage clapped thunderously and looked on with enthusiasm as the glamorous pair made their way up and down the rows of seats.

"Ah, yes, Mrs. Erina Sorenson," he nodded towards the most sought after civilian architect in the hemisphere, toting his microphone like an old-fashioned emcee. "How are the children?"

"The very same as the last time you asked ten minutes ago," she then leaned into her husband's side and made a comment about how his technique of small talk left much to be desired.

Their host graciously ignored the remark and marched onwards, finding an easy target for derision in her older brother. "Lieutenant Charles Tucker IV, alpha shift warp drive attendant on the USS _Montana_. This young man, ladies and gentleman, is cultivating a legacy."

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and glanced across the table. Alyssa Mayweather, to her discredit, could barely hide her bemusement behind her closed palm. "Say, Charlie, how fast does the engine run nowadays?"

"Warp seven point nine three on a clear stretch. Unfortunately, not all of us can serve aboard a hot rod like the _Berlin_." Matilda, indulging in a flight of childish fancy, sticks her tongue out at him.

The President's smile turns wry, but no one can predict what comes out of his mouth next. "So, on the topic of tradition, have you gotten pregnant yet?"

Veran chokes on his drink in that instant, prompting Henry to clap him on the back roughly. From the dais, Trip shouts, "That's a low blow, Jon!"

His son peeped at the sputtering Denobulan and his flustered girlfriend before uttering meekly, "Not yet, sir. We haven't had the privilege of coming across any Xyrillians."

The older man laughs at this and continues on his path, occasionally stopping to rib a former crewman or their child. After a luxurious meal and several torturously long toasts, the band strikes up a set of lively tunes in the far corner of the ballroom.

Merry is in the thick of the action, twirling Serena Archer's eldest daughter Leah to the beat of the music. As she laughs and clings to her, she briefly imagines that the little girl is her kin, with delicately upswept ears and astonishingly blue eyes. Although the notion is fleeting, it gives her pause.

_Gods._ She, Meredith L'Nira Reed, is going to be an aunt.

On the perimeter of the dance floor, the Tuckers are deep in conversation with their former commanding officer. Erika, it seems, has gone off to spend some time with her children, leaving Jonathan quite alone and without a purpose. They are alternating between boasting about their progeny's accomplishments, as any parents are apt to do, when Trip feels a light hand brush his shoulder.

It's Phlox, flanked by his two favorite wives. Elizabeth looks a bit unsteady; her eyes are bloodshot and Trip is willing to bet that she's been crying. Feezal, however, appears as youthful and confident as ever.

"Mr. Tucker!" She exclaims, twirling a lock of her blonde curls between her fingers. This draws attention to the tasteful, if not prominent, amount of cleavage her dress emphasizes. "Why, I haven't seen you since…"

"The Interspecies Medical Conference on Dekendi III," he cut in. "That was nearly…"

"A long time ago," her eyes travel up his body appraisingly. "My goodness, you've aged well."

Trip is beginning to feel uncomfortable. It doesn't help that Hoshi's shaking with poorly suppressed mirth, and Archer isn't doing so well either.

"I trust that my beloved has kept you in proper working order as I once requested," her regard trails downward to his middle, lasciviously curating his tightened attire.

"Oh, um…yes!" He stutters, reaching behind him. Hoshi stumbles forward and nearly into the physician. "This is my wife—"

"Dr. Hoshi Tucker. I was once the communications officer aboard the Enterprise, if you recall." Trip can't believe how benevolently she greets this…challenger.

Feezal beams. "Of course I do. I'm glad that we've crossed paths once again, Hoshi, and even more pleased to learn that at least one woman has succeeded in holding Mr. Tucker down."

He coughs, knowing that a prodigious blush must be spreading across his cheeks at that moment. "I wish I could say the same about my son." Trip knows that her intentions are pure, but his conservative sensibilities keep him from being at peace with them. "He's gonna be thirty this next winter, and is yet to have a serious relationship."

If she's perturbed by the idea of him having children by another woman, Feezal doesn't show it. "Perhaps he's a maverick of sorts. I seem to recall you being a little unconventional yourself, Mr. Tucker."

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots his best friend en route to the refreshments. A few paces behind him, his wife and Matilda converse with their heads bent closely together. As usual, Trip is all action and no forethought.

"Feezal, I'm sure you remember Admiral Reed. He was a Lieutenant when you first met him, but he's as work-oriented as ever."

He stops, as do the women. Malcolm smiles politely and tips his head in her direction. "It's an honor, madam."

"The pleasure is mine, " she assures him, before extending the same courtesy to his entourage.

"Mal married our Vulcan science officer, T'Pol, shortly after our mission concluded," Hoshi continues, much to Feezal's delight.

"Another interspecies couple?" She glances at her husband, who confirms this. "Oh, how wonderful!"

"And this would be their youngest daughter—"

"Matilda, I'm familiar with her! Why, you're the mother of my Veran's child, are you not?"

Malcolm's reaction is severe and instantaneous. Meanwhile, Elizabeth breaches all conspicuous protocol of Denobulan society by grabbing her wrist and twisting as hard as she can.

She cries out, loudly enough that she doesn't hear the former armory officer exclaim, "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, Mr. Reed, you must be so proud!" Feezal gushes. "Your first grandchild, and at such a young age for both parents!"

Jonathan and Trip are agape, looking frantically between a horrified Mattie and a stricken Malcolm. Phlox has succeeded in disengaging his second wife from the situation, leaving Cutler standing slack jawed and dismayed.

She starts to babble dumbly. "Don't blame Feezal, someone had to tell her and I thought it was implied that it would have to be a secret and…oh, _hell_!" With that declaration, Elizabeth turns and makes haste to catch up with her departing family.

The remaining bystanders take a hint, backing away slowly as T'Pol's expression becomes more and more tortured in her attempts to maintain her composure. Suddenly and without any warning whatsoever, Malcolm turns and bellows, "Meredith!"

The young woman in question is already making tracks in the direction of the open courtyard with Veran and Charlie in tow.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: My classes at the university started about three weeks ago, plus drill camp for marching season and my senior year of high school beginning in a few days...I think you get the gist. I'm considering two more chapters before this series go on a more serious hiatus. (Like...until November or so.) Is it just me, or is my lack of a native English tongue more noticeable here than usual?

Kisses to BonesBird for allowing me to borrow Serena and Henry again, and for her invaluable advice on SassCaptains characterization and dialogue.

**Intertwining Destinies: A Night to Remember, Part Three**

**The One Where Even Your Closest Friends Are No Help, RTP Come to Terms, and Jorika Make Plans**

"For the final time, T'Pol, I'm not angry, just—"

"Disappointed," she fills in the blanks of the clichéd phrase with practiced ease. The couple stood on the balcony only a few steps away from the bustle of the banquet hall, curtains drawn with only the incandescent lights of the townships around the bay to illuminate the scene.

Malcolm shakes his head. It's clear that this is not the case. "This could jeopardize both of their careers before they even really begin. I don't give a damn if they've been courting for close to seven years! They're too young, too impressionable, _too_…" He searches for the correct assertion to finish his pontification.

"You're afraid," she accuses, and they both know fully well that she's right. Casually, almost pompously, she lowers herself into a lounge chair.

"So are you." His voice is quieter, more affected.

The Vulcan's riposte dies in her throat. Slowly, her husband goes to one knee and takes her trembling hand in his own.

Her next statement escapes her lips with almost clinical detachment. "She is our final daughter."

"And heaven knows all that we endured to bring her into this world." Malcolm kisses her knuckles gingerly, peering up at her with hooded eyelids.

"Science may only progress to a certain extent." In her mind's eye, she sees her child suffering in the name of righteous adoration. If T'Pol, whom for all intents and purposes appeared completely healthy, could have a confinement so fraught with tragedy, how would Matilda manage the extensive trials of an interspecies pregnancy with her weaker constitution?

He senses her unrest and is quick to remedy it. "You must have faith."

T'Pol eyes her husband dubiously. She wants to ensure her daughter's safety in its entirety. There is no way to accomplish this.

"Faith is what has gotten us this far," Malcolm nearly whispers, toying with the golden band on her finger. "As of now, I don't even want to think about the possibility of—"

She stands suddenly, not wanting to even entertain the thought. Drapes are thrown back as the mother returns to the ballroom in a flurry of purpose.

-0-

Erina Sorenson, nee Tucker, was puzzled. Her six month old son was balanced on one hip, gurgling while she surveyed the scene before her. What had begun as a frantic call to arms had deteriorated into a belated exchange of nervous impulses and rehashed tactics. Meredith paced back and forth only a few meters away, deep in thought.

"This is sure to be a sensitive operation, ladies and gentlemen," she said without preamble, pointing at each and every one of them. "Mattie's emotional security—and, to a lesser extent, Veran's well-being—depend largely on our actions tonight."

Travis Mayweather's daughter nodded emphatically, but she wasn't yet sure she understood. "So, let me get this straight. _Someone_ has a weekend bender on Risa and gets knocked up, and suddenly it's our responsibility to clean up the aftermath?"

She winces. Alyssa has always been to the point, but she's never known her to be that blunt. From the bench where the two are huddled, Veran makes a weak attempt to defend his girlfriend. "Although I wouldn't use such coarse language to define our predicament, you have the basic knowledge of the situation."

The science officer blinks slowly. Even to the oblivious outsider, she appears to be in shock over what has transpired over the past few hours. The sun has set over the landscape, bathing the courtyard in the muted tones of the evening.

"Don't be so insensitive," her twin brother chides the pilot from the shade of a nearby tree. "This set-up shouldn't be unfamiliar to anyone." He's referring to the series of clandestine meetings that had taken place between the group of friends over the past few years. The last time they had congregated had been at Akira's going-away party; indeed, the botanist had decided to leave the country after graduate school and get back in touch with his Asiatic roots, but had planned on a much more substantial announcement during the celebration.

"How's Yasuhiro?" Erina asks in an attempt to dispel the mounting weight of emotional discomfort among the group. She's referring to her brother's domestic partner of more than a year.

Akira's not buying that she's interested in his personal life when considerably juicier gossip rears its ugly head. "Honestly, are we even sure that your parents will be upset about this?"

The elder Reed strikes this theory down with a dubious glance. "You should have seen the look on his face! Mother, even after all of this time, I had a hard time reading her, but—"

Another glamorous dark-haired woman interrupts this assertion, crossing the pathway and sweeping Erina's infant son from her arms. Meredith moves to inform Serena Archer of what she's missed, but she's one step ahead of all of them, as usual.

"Don't bother. Everyone in the ballroom saw what happened. It can't be helped, especially when Feezal's so damn loud." She coos to the baby, who giggles happily. "Hello there, little man."

The Denobulan physician stands, only to have Charlie clamp a hand onto his arm. He tosses a glance over his shoulder, as if to ask, _what the hell did you think I was about to do?_

"I take it that you don't have any particularly enlightening tidbits of wisdom to share with us, Serena?"

Erika Hernandez's oldest child appears conflicted. "I'm more confused about why you two would want to have children in the first place. They're smelly—"

"Messy…" Erina finds herself cutting in to the soliloquy, much to her own dismay.

"—and suck up all of your free time." She offers the teething infant one of her fingers, which he gratefully takes into his mouth. It's clear that there's no merit behind her teasing remarks.

Merry, exasperated and clearly running out of steam for governance, collapses onto the bench opposite Veran and draws her distraught sibling into her arms. The assembled group, for all of the time they had known each other and however many hardships they had navigated together, was still as unfocused as they had ever been. The unacknowledged question of whether the friends would stick with the sisters through their plight still hung heavily in the air.

The eldest Tucker approaches the pair in an entirely adept manner, keen to assuage their concerns. "Listen..." The two make eye contact and the words seem to die in his throat. Charlie and Merry, even for the lack of a romantic relationship, yet harbored an unexplained emotional entanglement. To see her upset was his definitive undoing.

"We're here for you," Akira drapes his suit jacket over the shoulders of one of the shivering women before joining the impromptu powwow.

The two sigh with reprieve, even more relieved to note the chorus of nods and affirmative gestures among the group. The subsequent companionable silence, albeit short lived, was broken by a playful Serena elbowing her way into the circle.

"Although the next time you two decide to go off together…"

Mattie dismissed this with a wave of her hand. "The contraception speech is the last thing I need to hear tonight."

"Contraception?" She repeats incredulously, "I was thinking more along the lines of a chaperone. Someone like this little guy…."

With that, she deposits the infant into her waiting arms. Matilda had held Erina's child more than once before with little to no emotional response, but now just looking at his pert little nose, curly wisps of dark hair with expressive eyes as big as her father's tea saucers, stirred up something within her. Behind her, Charlie employs some sort of jest, which causes the group to erupt in raucous laughter. She doesn't have to pretend not to hear it.

Suddenly, there is considerable commotion coming from the direction of the ballroom. The curtains rustle before emitting the gaunt figures of her parents. Ivan Rostov is only a few steps behind them, breathing hard with his hair askew. He shoots a repentant look in the direction of his fiancée.

If looks could kill, he would have been struck dead on the spot.

"Alyssa!" He gasps, "I'm sorry! I got distracted and didn't notice…"

For a moment it appears that he is in for a severe reprimand, but the pilot takes in Malcolm's imploring gaze and T'Pol's stony resolve and decides against it. Momentarily forgetting her friends, she stalked across the green and seized Ivan by the lapels. For every grievous indiscretion of conduct she was guilty of committing, she knew when a family was in serious need of some time alone.

A beat or two later, Erina picks up on the hastily delivered social cue and all but drags an eager Serena from the action. Charlie follows close behind with the oblivious infant, and the Reeds find themselves alone for the first time in the evening.

The hush is nearly unbearable as the foursome engage in lively internal debates about which one of them should be the one to break the silence. Finally, Mattie speaks without the use of her translator, her voice broken with emotion and plaintive. "Father, I…"

"Is it true, Matilda?"

"It is," she's dangerously close to tears, but resists the urge to bury her face into her sister's shoulder.

Merry's presence is noted at that instant; nevertheless, she would be remiss to leave and subject her sister to whatever firestorm of emotion was about to take place. Veran's knees feel weak, but he remains on the opposite side of her with his hands clasped. He's profoundly terrified, yet somehow rooted to the spot. He feebly implores his heart to cease its palpitations before he might be rendered unconscious.

Admiral Reed's next words almost cause just that. Gathering his daughter into a tight embrace, he mutters, "Thank God."

She relaxes into his embrace in an instant, although Merry is perplexed. The author makes eye contact with her mother, whose expression is indecipherably strained.

"Your father and I have consulted each other on the matter and have decided that if this is the most significant piece of news you choose to surprise us with in the course of your adult life, we should be…we should be _happy,_ Mattie." The scientist kneels and takes their palms. The flow of benevolent sentiment traversing the parental bond at the moment confirms that her words are genuine.

The young women are shocked into silence. Mattie is moved to tears, snuffling and sobbing into her father's shoulder in an entirely undignified manner. None in attendance can blame her; the sense of relief, the unconditional acceptance put forth by her parents…at that moment, she knew that whatever happened to herself and her unborn child, things would be okay.

"There, there, darling, there's no need to weep," Malcolm soothed, backing off some distance to allow Veran to tend to her. "We adore you both, and that's never going to change. You're a grown woman and able to make your own decisions. Besides…" he and his wife exchange a knowing glance, "actions taken in love are rarely mistaken."

"I know…I just…so…so _relieved…_," she gasped for air, although she was now fairly beaming with gratitude.

"As for you, young man," he intoned, jabbing his pointer finger in Veran's direction. Merry sighed. She should have known that her sister's paramour wouldn't have been able to get away without a rebuke of some kind.

"I suppose that you've adequately prepared yourself for the challenges of an interspecies pregnancy. What with the material in your father's research archives and the brilliant mind you already possess, I am looking forward to our future collaboration," T'Pol intervenes before her husband can begin to admonish him, much to the physician's delight.

"Excellent," Veran gushed, offering her a data PADD that he had conveniently stored in the panel of his suit jacket. "As you can see, the fetal development should present itself as an amalgamation of Denobulan and human gestational patterns…"

The two began to move off into the garden, much to the amusement of the people they left behind. It never failed to entertain Malcolm how devoted his wife was to her work, nor by how many people that characteristic was shared. He extended his elbows to either side, causing a comedic stretching of his already too-tight uniform.

"Shall we, ladies?"

"Go back to the party?" Mattie was incredulous.

"Of course. We'll see if we can find one of the women to fix you up." He unsheathed his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her hand, displaying one of his most persistent old fashioned habits.

"Then we shall be delighted," Merry took his arm, her smile prominent across her high cheekbones.

Slowly, with much pauses and laughs in between steps, Enterprise's former armory officer employed massive amounts of faux imperiousness to escort the two girls he loved most back to the festivities.

-0-

Jonathan Archer discovered his wife, Erika, in the corner of the ballroom. Resplendent as she was in her crimson evening gown, the color that he believed suited her the most, she was yet nursing her flask whiskey. His fingers ghosted across her hips, lower on the back than perhaps was appropriate, before he took a seat beside her.

"Where've you been?" Her tone is faintly accusatory, but there's a certain gleam in her eye that lets him know that there is nothing to fear.

"I've been entertaining the family of an old friend. Did you know that Gral lived to meet his great-great grandchildren?" He's referring to the Tellarite Ambassador that had once agreed to participate in their hunt for a Romulan drone craft.

"Can't say I cared to," Erika sets her glass down, and then picks it up again as brief uncertainty darts across her features. After taking a deep swig, she mutters, "So many memories here."

He's not about to deny that. Sliding in her direction over the barstool, he says, "Not all bad, I hope."

"Of course not." Something strikes her then, a faint recollection of sitting across from him many years ago while they were still young and their lives still not completely set in habit.

"When's the last time we went climbing, Jonathan?" she inquires flirtatiously, recalling one of the incidents that had set their past relationship back in motion. Both distinctly remembered those nights spent under the stars…not all of them spent engaged in proper behavior.

"It's been a while," he admitted. The notion is agreeable to him, but his position as Federation President would make such a private excursion challenging. Now that Serena and Henry were now adults with careers and relationships of their own, the two had had seemingly ample opportunity to recreate some of their more colorful exploits…but not _all_ of them.

"A long time," she confirms, turning her lower body into the bar and shedding a stiletto heel. As she snaked her bare foot up the leg of his trousers, her eyes locked on to his. "If it's an escape hatch you're looking for, maybe I can help you find it."

Those words stirred up a multitude of emotions within him. Jonathan keenly remembered meeting Erika in a bar after the Xindi conflict, when the overpowering sensations of nostalgia and, _yes_, arousal for her, were not in check.

Jon coughs, taking in his wife's impish grin. He must be blushing horribly.

"Out of the way, this man needs a drink!"

The lovers separate in time to see Trip and Shran approach with purpose, with a very bewildered Malcolm Reed in tow.

"What's the occasion, gentlemen?" Erika asks, although Jon can guess from her expression that she already knows.

"Haven't you heard? Mal's going to be a grandpa in the spring! Seems that Mattie and Phlox's youngest finally decided to take the plunge…"

"They're not engaged yet, Trip," he reminds the engineer, who shrugs emphatically.

"All the same," Tucker waves to the bartender, calling, "A round of Andorian ale, on me."

"Ah, I do remember the day that my Talla approached me and told me that she'd made the final selection for her quad. It was a joyous day for the entire household," Shran thumped the counter enthusiastically. "I've got to say, Archer, I didn't think that this particular pink-skin would produce offspring, least of all marry."

Jonathan chokes back a chortle at the good-natured ribbing of one of his oldest friends. "Neither did I, Shran, but she seems to bring out the best in him."

As his drink is slid into his waiting hands, the cerulean man downs it in a single gulp. "Really?" His antennas twitch with preoccupation. "If this so-called _best_ happens to be the ability to enjoy a decent evening of revelry, I haven't seen it."

Malcolm is indignant at this assertion and attempts to follow Shran's example with the ale. He's not used to such strong liquor—per his wife's insistence more than anything—and manages to choke on the thin liquid.

The blond laughs, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "He may not be easily excitable, but that's going to have to change." Motioning to the attendant, he preemptively orders another round of alcohol.

Some distance away, Meredith Reed is jubilant, entertaining the children in attendance by dancing with them in abandon and belting out the lyrics to whatever song the band happens to be playing at the time. Jonathan doesn't have to be concentrate to hear her strong, clear voice: _"I love you baby, and if it's quite alright, I need you baby, through all the lonely nights—"_

Alyssa Mayweather and her fiancée are bickering, signaling wildly and pausing every few moments to exchange some gesture of affection. Only a few seats away, Erina and Serena are sitting with their heads close together, gossiping as if they were still teenagers.

Meanwhile, Charlie makes the abbreviated gauntlet around the circumference of the dance floor, dodging the advances of several extremely eager female Denobulan engineering students from the Academy. Jonathan imagines that his personal arsenal of excuses for ignoring their affections must be nearly empty. _At least Feezal hadn't gotten to him yet…_

Henry dances with an attractive redhead, only steps away from Akira and his partner, his countenance relaxed and smile unstrained in a way that he hadn't seen in a long time. He hoped that whatever temporary happiness his son had stumbled upon had some possibility of sticking around.

Finally, Jonathan's eyes drift to the larger-than-life portrait of the surviving members of the crew taken at the decommissioning ceremony all those years ago. He's in the middle, his smirk rakish and dress uniform pristine in unquestionable pride in his accomplishments. There, gazing at himself as a much younger man, Archer can't help but thinking that some things—no, _many_ things—had indeed changed for the better.


End file.
